


Intoxicate Me Now

by asarcasticwitch



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alpha Peter Hale, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Big Boss Peter Hale, Bigotry & Prejudice, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Bondage, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Club Owner Peter Hale, Cock Rings, Coming Untouched, Consensual Kink, Contracts, Dark Magic, Developing Relationship, Dildos, Dom Peter Hale, Dom/sub, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Dates, Fluff and Smut, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, Isaac Lahey's Past Abuse, Kneeling, Loss of Control, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Not Beta Read, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Peter Hale Owns a BDSM Club, Peter Hale is a Bad Boy, Possessive Peter Hale, Praise Kink, Protectiveness, Psychological Trauma, Rough Oral Sex, Safeword Use, Safewords, Scarred Peter Hale, Scent Kink, Scratching, Singer Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Spanking, Sub Stiles Stilinski, Subspace, Top Peter Hale, Vibrators, Werewolf Hunters, Werewolf Mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 82,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22692592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asarcasticwitch/pseuds/asarcasticwitch
Summary: Stiles stares dubiously at the ad from the Daily News. There, in the center of the half-crumpled back page in faded black ink reads:SINGER REQUIRED.ACTUAL TALENT MANDATORY.MUST BE WILLING TO SING ANY GENRE OF MUSIC.Had he not been knee-deep in bills and seriously concerned about where his next meal is coming from, he may have ripped the ad apart, dismissing it as a bad joke.As it stands, though, he is, in fact—to put it mildly—up shit creek, so is in desperate need of a decent paying job to last him through summer. A job that’ll potentially take him on full-time once he finally finishes college. A woolly advertisement is not going to moot that fact.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 296
Kudos: 693





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again!
> 
> For anyone who hasn't read anything of mine previously, know this; I adore Peter Hale. It's quite ridiculous, bordering on obsession, so yeah, that's what you're in for. 
> 
> I will put disclaimers and warnings that contain spoilers at the end of each chapter when necessary—so look out for them.
> 
> I am no professional so don't expect magic, I struggle with punctuation, grammar, and past/present tense the most, but I hope I can get better the more I practice. I use Grammarly to edit all my fics, but it ain't a miracle worker, so I've tried my best. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t know what he expects to happen in all this, but he’ll give it his best shot. The minimal information, along with the fact he’s never heard of the place before, would typically be enough to set him on a manic research frenzy—probably resulting in him chickening out. But, this time, his curiosity and desperation are glued to the driver’s seat, allowing him no chance to back out. He’s going to try.
> 
> He can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics and em dashes are my best friend, don't come for me.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Stiles stares dubiously at the ad from the Daily News. There, in the center of the half-crumpled back page in faded black ink reads:

_SINGER REQUIRED._

_ACTUAL TALENT MANDATORY._

_MUST BE WILLING TO SING ANY GENRE OF MUSIC._

Had he not been knee-deep in bills and seriously concerned about where his next meal is coming from, he may have ripped the ad apart, dismissing it as a bad joke. For starters, the sheer lack of _actual_ information is a grey area in itself. Apart from the address written in small—minuscule is probably more accurate—print below the initial block lettering, that’s all there is. No phone number, no other ‘must-have’s, and worst of all, no mention of salary. Not even an estimation.

Plus, what in the hell is with the demanding undertone? Underlining words to put a point across just makes you look like a complete dick.

As it stands, though, he is, in fact—to put it mildly—up shit creek, so is in desperate need of a decent paying job to last him through summer. A job that’ll potentially take him on full-time once he finally finishes college. A woolly advertisement is not going to moot that fact.

Scott pointed out the ad to him a few hours ago while flicking through his morning read. Bless his adorable puppy dog heart, but for some reason, the wolf prefers the good ole fashioned way of job hunting, rather than the modern, and so much fucking easier _—_ God bless the internet—electronic approach. Stiles is convinced that if carrier pigeons were still a thing, Scott would choose them over mobile communication any day.

Since it’s their summer break, Scott made the several-hour journey over to visit him, and Lord above, had it meant the absolute fucking world to Stiles. Especially when his friend offered to elevate some of his stress by taking him out to numerous seedy clubs to get utterly shit-faced. Much to Stiles’ immense delight, his friend's commendable act of heroism also extended into helping with his job search.

To be brutally honest, though, as grateful as he was, Stiles was more heavily invested in getting so blindingly drunk that he—on more than one occasion—started chatting up a street lamp, the whole concept of 'employment' was the furthest thing from his mind, funnily enough. What can he say? He has his priorities straight, thank you very much.

Probably the only thing straight about him, but that’s a total digression. 

Scott is enrolled in a college closer to home, whereas Stiles had to haul his whole life—or whatever he could cram into the trunk of his Jeep—to someplace else, so they only see each other in the holidays. Stiles had no choice but to leave home if he was serious about the career path he wanted to pursue. The closest college to Beacon Hills that offers a Bachelor’s in music is a few hours’ drive away, in San Francisco.

It had been a struggle at first, he won't lie, but now, with being in the second half of his final year, he’s pretty much used to distance. It’s not like he can _never_ go back. It’s just, with lessons and studying, he only really has summers and Christmases to take a hot minute to chill out. It's quickly become a habit to Skype with Scott every other week or so—when the wolf isn't arguing about how technology is the Devil—and to ring his dad whenever he can. It isn't the same as seeing them in the flesh, but they make do, and quite frankly, he found out pretty quickly that homesickness ranks very low on a student's list of things to worry about. 

Currently occupying the top spot of said list, is his lack of a stable plan for the immediate future. Now that it’s his final summer break before school ends, he knows a weekend job in a coffee shop won’t keep him afloat once he’s released into the big bad world. He needs to start looking for something a bit more _permanent_ , something with longer hours, better pay, and a boss that isn’t a total dickwad. Whether that’s in San Francisco or closer to home, he doesn’t really care; he just needs the security.

Stiles has been working weekends at the local coffee shop since his first week at college. A fellow student, Danny, had put in a good word for him. While he’s eternally grateful to the guy, the job's barely enough for him to put food—calling what he eats _food_ is being overly generous—on his table, let alone pay the rent to his poxy shoebox apartment. Oh, there’s also his monthly phone and internet bills so he can actually do research for his essays and receive emails from his professors, the gas his Jeep eats up to get him to and from campus, plus all the other living expenses adults are subjected too.

He feels there should’ve been some sort of class dedicated to the entirely rude and unnecessary ball-ache that is ‘adulting’ somewhere throughout his high school career. Or at the very least, a brochure.

His dad has offered to help him out on several occasions, but his pride won’t have it. The man already paid for the majority of his education fees using the money he and his mom saved to send him to college. Apparently, they started saving the day he was barely old enough to reiterate the alphabet and didn’t that just pull on his heartstrings. So, Stiles had been adamant that when he got to San Francisco, he would try and get by without any more handouts. 

Part of his newfound independence, of course, meant renting a place of his own. He started off in a dorm on campus, his own room but shared bathroom, laundry room, and kitchen. It was the cheapest option, but that only lasted his first year. He couldn’t hack it. Especially not after the fifth time he’d walked in on his roommate fucking his girlfriend over the communal dining table, among other things. Instead, for the last three years, he’s gone through the private student housing route. He managed to wrangle himself a reasonable one-bed apartment relatively close to campus, a small space within a building full of other mildly antisocial students who, like him, aren't built for the shared accommodation. It isn’t exactly cheap, but he guesses that’s the price of privacy, but it is roughly manageable.

At the very least, it allows him the surety that he won’t unwittingly lean in someone else’s jizz halfway through dinner, not that he’s opposed to being covered in spunk, but only in certain circumstances, certainly not while he’s eating.

Contrary to popular belief, he has standards.

There's only one semester left before he’s out of here with his degree in music. Meaning, he’ll have to move from the student housing, and while it’s pretty expensive in rent to live here, it’s drastically reduced in price compared to renting somewhere outside of school. Although private, it’s still discounted to some extent. Stiles is dreading the day he’ll have to move out, but he knows, even if his pride would be bruised, he can always move back with his dad. But that is the last resort; he won’t give up.

The most important thing for him at the moment though is the job, without one of those, there’s no point in him even thinking about looking for somewhere to live. With that in the forefront of his mind, he squints in close to read the address at the bottom of the ad; the lack of a phone number seriously concerns him, like honestly, are these people medieval? 

Why an ad for a singer is being published in the local newspaper rather than online in this day and age is an issue Stiles would’ve taken a jab at had he an ounce of fucks left to give. Instead, he just rips the page away from where Scottie had pinned it onto his refrigerator before leaving this morning and decrees to worry about the technicalities later.

With the paper now in his palm, he ponders the name of the place for a second—or what he guesses is the name.

_HOWLING AT THE MOON_

He can’t recall ever hearing of it before. What exactly is _it_? A bar, a club, a fucking community theatre, who the hell knows? With how forthcoming these people have been so far, it’s quite surprising how the place's function isn’t disclosed somewhere on the page.

_Not._

Unlike Beacon Hills, where everyone knows everyone and you can’t so much as fart in the local store without Richard from number twenty spreading the news at Sunday mass, San Francisco is enormous. It’s a place one can just blend into the crowd and go unnoticed for years before anyone even knows your name. Hence, he doesn’t instantly recognize the place by its name or is even familiar with its location. The only time he samples the nightlife here is when Scottie visits him, and each time they end up going to the same grimy club a few blocks away. Thus he doesn’t have much experience of the places people with even a shred of dignity may convene on an evening.

Whatever it is, he decides just to bite the bullet and give it a chance. He is desperate, after all.

Taking a quick gander at his current attire in the mirror, he cringes internally, deciding just as quickly to change. He swaps his creased, two-day-old red plaid shirt for a fresh and only slightly-less creased dull-gray plaid shirt along with a clean pair of skinny black jeans. He buttons the shirt up to the top instead of wearing it open as he usually does, hoping against hope that it’ll magically make him appear a little more distinguished.

 _Polished turd_ comes to mind.

He tries his best to tame the unruly mess on top of his head. Why it’s decided today of all days to resemble a bird's nest, he has no idea. Perhaps he committed some sort of grievous sin in a past life?

There’s every possibility.

Once slightly more presentable, he sprays himself with enough deodorant to choke a donkey and shovels a few breath mints into his mouth for effect, several missing their mark entirely and scattering to the floor. It takes him point-nothing of a second to deem them a problem for future Stiles, shuffling the little white morsels out of his path with the toe of his sneaker as he takes a cursory whiff of himself just to be sure. He could’ve just showered, but it’s now four-thirty in the afternoon, and if this place is a club or bar, he would much rather be in and out before the joint is in full swing.

He stuffs the ad carelessly into his back pocket, simultaneously grabbing the keys to his Jeep from the bowl atop the kitchen counter. He practically runs to his front door, barely remembering to lock it before leaping down the several flights of stairs to the apartment’s entrance. If he nearly knocks a young couple off their feet as he stumbles towards where his baby-blue beauty is parked, then he doesn’t give it much more than a passing thought. It's just another thing his brain will no doubt remind him to feel guilty about in the middle of the night for the next few years anyway.

He jumps into the driver’s seat none too gracefully, turning on the ignition before he can talk himself out of it. He’s pulling out of his parking bay before he even has a chance to think about fastening his seatbelt or letting her warm up a little.

He doesn’t know what he expects to happen in all this, but he’ll give it his best shot. The minimal information, along with the fact he’s never heard of the place before, would typically be enough to set him on a manic research frenzy—probably resulting in him chickening out. But, this time, his curiosity and desperation are glued to the driver’s seat, allowing him no chance to back out. He’s going to try.

He can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think and thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck it. He’s made it this far. Too late to turn back now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for you.
> 
> I may be spitting out a couple of chapters quickly over the next few days as I have them ready—they just need editing. It will then slow down after that, probably to one every so often as I work through the writer's block. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this, just remember all mistakes are mine and all that jazz!
> 
> Have fun!

A twenty-minute drive has him pulling into the empty parking lot of the address on the ad, the roaring crunch of gravel under his tires making him wince as he creeps closer to the building.

It’s a club. That answers that question. It also looks relatively new. The area is… not abandoned per se, but a bit more _private_ than all the other clubs he’s seen before. Usually, you find a club in the middle of a busy street or situated among other establishments of the same caliber, but this one is utterly secluded.

It’s a beautiful area from what Stiles could decipher on the journey here. It could be seen as a sample of the high-class side of the city, somewhere all the posh snobs and millionaires inhabit.

Basically, somewhere Stiles will stick out like a sore thumb.

Fuck it. He’s made it this far. Too late to turn back now.

Well, he _could_ just turn around and forget the whole idea. Though, it’s cost him a decent chunk in gas to get here, and money is way too tight for him to be wasteful, no matter how much the voice in his head is begging for him to make a prompt—and probably very illegal—U-turn.

“Come on, Stiles. You can do this,” he encourages under his breath, sounding completely unconvincing even in his own head. He turns off the ignition once he’s parked in the bay closest to the building, taking a moment to slide his hands over the fabric of his shirt to smooth out any stubborn wrinkles.

After psyching himself up for what is probably a worrying length of time, he steps out of his Jeep—stumbles would be more accurate. He could probably survive with not locking it in a place like this, but he’s nothing if not over-cautious; his ADHD not sparing him an inch in that department.

Straightening out his shoulders, he strolls up to the industrial black steel doors, noting there are no handles on this side. He exerts some common sense and goes to push, not even trying to hold in his sigh of disappointment when the door doesn’t budge. He’s not entirely sure why he’s in the least bit surprised; it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the gigantic slabs of metal would never in a million years be so easily moved, especially not with his average musculature.

He allows himself a second to wallow in self-pity before rapping against the solid metal three times just to make sure.

Silence.

This is just his luck. Why hadn’t he typed the address into Google first like he usually does with anything new? It would’ve taken him less than a few seconds to check the who, what, where, and why of the place, but no, he decided to run before he could walk, and this is the consequence.

It’s fucking closed.

Huffing out a defeated breath, he turns on his heel, heading back to the Jeep with his head hanging low, fingers threaded through his hair, scuffing the stones under his feet as he goes.

On the drive here, he’d talked himself out of his original reservations, allowing excitement to bubble up in its stead. Stiles wants nothing more than to land a job as a singer. Whether that’s in a bar or on a frickin’ cruise ship, he doesn’t care; it’s the sole reason he chose the music degree in the first place. His whole life revolves around music; whether that’s just listening to it or making it, it doesn’t matter.

Music means everything to him.

He couldn’t deny the tiny flip his heart did when Scott initially pointed out the ad—suspicious lack of details aside. He’s been searching months, _years_ even for something like this to crop up. While it didn’t mention hours or pay or anything of actual substance, he still couldn’t help but pray that this was the break he’d been searching for.

The disappointment he’s feeling now is because he let himself believe something might actually be working in his favor for once.

_Guess not._

His fingertips are barely ghosting over his car door handle when the sharp sliding of metal echoes from behind him. Flailing around, he catches sight of a pair of unrelenting, deep brown—almost black—eyes staring back at him through the small viewing hole in the club’s door. Much like a moth drawn to flame, he staggers back towards them, keeping just inches away from the open panel.

“Er, hi,” he greets sheepishly, lifting his hand in an awkward wave. “I’m here about the job you have advertised. The singer?” He tries to sound confident, but it fails miserably. Quite frankly, he’s absolutely shitting himself with the whole drug dealer feel this situation has taken a drastic turn towards.

Brown-eyes continues to stare, pupils traveling in a downwards motion as if sizing him up. Stiles can’t help the sudden pang of self-consciousness that settles in his gut like a brick. Why hadn’t he worn something a bit more elegant? Or even just something that’s been introduced to an iron throughout its lifetime. 

This kind of judgment hasn’t been thrust upon him since his first few years in high school. Back when he was a gangly, hyperactive kid with plump cherubic cheeks and a buzzcut that did nothing to hide how his ears are slightly too big for his head. Granted, he’s still kind of hyperactive, and the ears are unfortunately a permanent fixture, but that’s nothing a few years and a nest of natural brown waves couldn’t fix.

At the very least, he’s grown into his limbs while at University. He figured out early on that running, and other subtle exercises are great stress relievers, so he managed to work himself into a neatly trimmed, athletically-built figure. He’s always been broad-shouldered, but now, instead of the baby fat, he has some pretty hot lean muscle to balance it all out—if he does say so himself.

Not that it matters at this precise moment, under all this intense scrutiny, he feels like he’s been transported back to those unforgiving teenage years, a lanky streak standing awkwardly on display for the cruel eyes of every muscled jock in the boy’s locker room.

He shudders at the memories. 

An exasperated huff hits his ears right before the panel slams closed. Stiles flinches from his thoughts, the sudden loud _bang_ making his heart almost leap clean out of his chest. He debates with himself for a moment whether he should just hightail it out of there, but before he can take a step either backward or forwards, one of the doors groans, opening inward, revealing absolutely nothing except a dimly lit hallway.

Brown-eyes doesn’t say anything, just stands behind the door as Stiles slinks cautiously inside. What can he say? He has no sense of self-preservation, and while, yes, this all seems very dodgy, his curiosity doesn’t appear to give an ounce of a shit about the possible dangers.

Now inside the building, he can see clearly—or at least as clearly as one can see in such poor lighting—the man behind the piercing eyes. He’s dark-skinned, with black hair, and has the most stoic expression plastered across his rather gorgeous face. He’s also built like a brick shit house. Stiles has his fair share of height about him, but this guy is just ridiculous; he has to crane his neck just to look him square in the—kinda mesmerizing now that he’s up close—eyes.

The guy’s wearing a clean black button-up shirt with a black tie and a pair of neat, black dress pants. Stiles doesn’t fail to notice the miles of burly muscle concealed beneath the fabric, not that what he’s wearing is tight or anything, just extremely well fitted.

His mouth suddenly feels parched; if this guy is the club’s bouncer, then he’s undoubtedly the best candidate for the job. Stiles pities any poor soul who even dares to think about causing shit. Goliath here could no doubt kill you with his pinkie finger if the intense stare he’s sporting doesn’t force you to throw yourselfout first.

“So, erm…” Stiles breaks the uncomfortable silence, “who am I to speak to about the job?”

No answer.

“Not a talker, huh? Well, lucky you met me, I can talk enough for the both of us,” Stiles jokes, holding out his fist as if to give the guy a friendly bump on the shoulder before thinking better of the idea.

When Stiles is especially nervous, he deflects using sarcasm and humor. It’s pretty much his only defense at this point. While he’s confident he could probably hold himself okay in a fight with anyone else—especially now he’s gained some muscle—he’s almost certain he’d break like a goddamn toothpick if this guy decided to have a go.

The bouncer rolls his eyes at Stiles’ antics, which, _fair_. “Follow me.” And Jesus Christ on a bike, his voice is like Thor’s fucking thunder. Stiles’ asshole subconsciously clenches in what could only be described as pure terror.

_Note to self, try not to piss this guy off._

As they walk down what seems like an unnecessarily wide, never-ending hallway sporadically lined with non-descriptive black wooden doors, Stiles gradually gets more and more restless with the harrowing silence. He’s struggling to decide what exactly to do with his hands. It's just not something he’s ever been comfortable with; he needs some sort of noise to stop himself from getting all fidgety. He knows that’s why music is his calling; it soothes him, keeps his mind relaxed.

At this moment, he’s everything _but_ relaxed.

Big-guy must sense his nervousness; without warning, he stops dead, turns, and looks deep into Stiles’ very soul. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Er, Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.” He really needs to get a handle on his nerves; his voice sounds like he’s one glare away from pissing his pants.

“ _Stiles_?” the man parrots. It’s said as it usually is whenever someone hears his name for the first time, disbelieving and a little suspicious.

“Yes, _Stiles_ ,” he recites dryly. “It’s a nickname. Real name’s Polish and way too hard to pronounce.” The number of times he’s been questioned about his name is ridiculous. He has that last sentence ingrained in his brain well enough that he could confidently reel it off in his sleep.

He should get it printed on a tee, to be honest.

“Hm.”

_God, will this guy ever shut up?_

They keep moving, Stiles lingering slightly behind. The hall is big enough for a group of at least four people to walk comfortably side by side, but Stiles is nosy. He loiters, so there’s less change of Brown-eyes catching him inspecting all the doors for clues as to where they lead.

Finally, they approach the end of the hallway, a red curtain the only obstruction from going any further. Brown-eyes turns his head once again to look at Stiles, a blank expression on his face that could mean he’s internally battling against the budding tendrils of love blooming in his chest or that he’s contemplating whether to kill him now or later. Stiles will never know. Either way, he must come to some sort of conclusion as he reaches out to pull the billowing fabric to the side, signaling for Stiles to walk through.

To say he’s awestruck with the view now in front of him would be a gross understatement.

From the outside, the place just looks like a classier version of the club’s Stiles has walked past or been into previously. It has a certain mystique to it from the car park but had it been placed on a busy street among other clubs and bars, he might not have determined it as any different from the rest. It’s just a random, black, stylish-looking brick building with blacked-out windows plonked in the middle of a shit-ton of greenery. It could’ve possibly been mistaken for a gothic-style house—except for the club’s name written in a mixture of bold gold cursive and neat contrasting white lettering above the entrance.

It’s all very monochrome, in the most elegant possible way. Hence why Stiles guessed off the bat that the place is most likely ‘members-only’ or a building where all the millionaires come to congregate; it just has that kind of feel to it. Especially with the location being out of the way of civilization.

Apart from that, though, the outside doesn’t give anything away.

Seeing the inside definitely confirms his theory. This is no ordinary club, certainly not one that Stiles or Scott could ever in their wildest dreams have stepped foot in anyways.

The first thing to draw Stiles’ attention is the stage at the very back of the vast open space. Standing slap bang in the center is a vintage microphone with a drum kit sitting off to the right, and to the left, the most expensive-looking, white pianoforte he’s ever laid eyes on. In essence, he expects to be docked a whole month’s wages just to set his gaze upon the thing; it’s truly magnificent.

The décor on the inside of the club mirrors the minimalistic—and very dark—theme from the outside, just with a little added personality, if you will. Looking past the matte black walls and deep hickory-brown wooden floors, there are a few accents of color here and there that don’t appear out front.

Along one side of the room is a mixture of burgundy leather and—from this distance appears to be—soft velvet chaise lounges, love seats, and two or three-seater couches, all with glass coffee tables situated in front of them. There are also two raised sections at either side of the stage, both in either corner, with several steps up to what looks like closed-off booths. Perhaps for V.I.Ps.

On the opposite side of the room to the sitting area is the bar. A long, midnight-black marble thing that spans the whole length of the wall with dark, blood-red bar stools neatly stationed in a row before it. It looks to be better stocked than any other bar Stiles has ever seen in his life. Hell, it’s probably better stocked than Walmart. He doesn’t even want to imagine how many different bottles of alcohol it takes to fill each of those shelves.

No expense was spared in that department.

At a glance, the room is well enough equipped to hold at least fifty guests sitting down, which is quite a small number for a club, but this seems a bit more intimate. Though, with the massive dance floor space in front of the stage, it could comfortably hold another thirty or forty on top of that.

There are three smaller raised platforms situated in the middle of the floor, not entirely as elevated as the stage but still high enough off ground level to be deemed a tripping hazard—at least in Stiles’ book.

To the casual eye, the place has all the qualities of a high-end strip club; the only thing making Stiles take a second guess is the obvious lack of poles. Maybe they’re removable? Who knows?

Stiles clocks another red curtain to the left-hand side of the seating area. He guesses it leads to the staff room or maybe another hallway with more boringly ordinary doors that give away absolutely nothing of what they’re concealing.

He’s really curious, okay? All this mystery is killing him.

He’s just about plucked up enough courage to ask the bouncer guy where the curtain leads when he spots a short blonde woman sashaying across the dance floor.

And where the fuck did she magically appear from? He could’ve sworn she wasn’t there before. Maybe she was behind the bar, or is there another curtain somewhere that he can’t see?

More than likely.

Blondie prowls towards him, hips swaying hypnotically with every step, only stopping when she’s a few feet in front of him. She’s dressed exactly the same as Brown-eyes, nothing loose or tight, just well fitted, everything accentuating her figure.

She’s absolutely gorgeous, not Stiles’ type exactly, but he can still appreciate her blonde-bombshell attractiveness. She’s shorter than him by a head and completely dwarfed by the other dude, but she still has the same intimidating aura about her, maybe even more so.

Stiles can’t place what’s making her so terrifying. It could be the way she’s eyeing him up like she wants to peel his skin from his bones, all the while her red-tinted lips are split with an utterly too-toothy grin.

Could be that.

“Who’s this?” she leers, her eyes never leaving Stiles’ for an instant, but it’s clear she isn’t talking to him. Instead, her inquiry is directed to the mountain of a man hovering behind him. Her voice is more profound than Stiles imagined but still laced with pure feminine sex appeal.

Is she flirting or getting ready to kill him? He really can’t tell.

“He’s here about the job,” the bouncer dude replies, his voice ricocheting off every corner of the room, echoing loudly between Stiles’ ears. The guy moves around Stiles slowly, stalking, taking up his stance shoulder to shoulder with Blondie in front of him.

A regular ole wall of intimidation.

“Really? _”_ she chirps incredulously, her smile wolfish as her eyes unashamedly roam from the top of his head to the tip of his toes—inspecting him.

And Stiles has had it up to here with all this goddamn scrutiny.

“Come on, dude, Brown-eyes here has already given me the once over. Can we stop with the whole full-body audit thing ’cause I’m seriously starting to feel like an animal in the zoo? I get it; this isn’t exactly my scene, but Christ on a bike, I’m surely not that much of an oddity.” Stiles takes a breath, quite proud of himself for managing to get all his words out without stuttering.

However, the twin glares now directed his way make him want to seriously re-evaluate his life choices. If he felt incredibly small under the penetrating glower of just one of these guys, it’s nothing compared to the feeling of now having both pairs of eyes cutting through his very being.

Stiles gulps, subconsciously taking a small step back, lowering his eyes to the floor as if on instinct. Curse his big mouth; why couldn’t he just shut up for once in his damned life and surrender to their judgment?

He’s undoubtedly about to die.

“Please accept my apologies. Boyd and Erica here can be a little _intimidating_ , hence why I hired them, but if they’ve made you feel uncomfortable, I shall see to it personally that they are punished.”

Stiles’ shoulders tense, head jerking up, an involuntary reaction to hearing the smooth, velvety voice of whoever just spoke. For some unknown reason, the powerful tone sends an intense shiver through his spine, blood rushing instantly to fill his cheeks, and if the startled looks on both _Erica_ and _Boyd_ ’s faces are anything to go by, they feel it too.

He can’t see anyone else in the room from his viewpoint, which means this unknown entity has snuck up from behind him. Stiles has never in his life felt so much like fucking cornered prey than he does in this moment.

He knows his heart is beating at a hundred miles an hour, his breath coming out in shaky gasps. His reaction is probably over the top, but he isn’t exactly ecstatic about meeting whoever is capable of making those pair freeze in obvious discomfort.

“And who, may I ask, are you?” The voice has transformed into a low purr, somehow closer to Stiles’ ear than it was before. In another situation, it would be incredibly sexy, but right now, Stiles can’t help the small jolt his body does at the stranger’s sudden proximity.

He twists around, ready to confront the source of such a terrifying—yet oddly attractive—voice for nearly making him jump out of his skin, but is instantly struck dumb.

In front of him, standing almost close enough to touch, is the most stunning human being Stiles has ever seen. Porn and movie stars included. He suddenly has to remember how to breathe; for probably the first time in his life, he’s physically unable to get any words to come out of his mouth.

He’s pretty sure his jaw has just gone slack, now resembling a gaping fish, but fuck him sideways; this guy is _hot._

The piercing blue eyes are the first things to draw Stiles in; hell, he would happily stand here and let those sapphire beauties judge him to their heart’s content; he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

The next thing to catch his attention would be the perfectly sculpted jaw, speckled with a neatly trimmed, light brown stubble. And holy shit, that neck. Stiles can’t confidently remember the last time he’d been so desperate to worship someone’s throat with his tongue.

First time for everything.

The stranger is in a crisp, white shirt. The sleeves rolled up his firm, muscled forearms, protruding veins on display and everything. Stiles is only just managing to resist the urge to lunge forward and bite.

Further down, he’s wearing a pair of black dress pants, not too dissimilar to the ones worn by Bonnie and Clyde behind him, but they seem even more fitted—if that’s even possible—and cling to his figure to the point of public indecency.

Jesus, those thighs could crush his skull like a grape.

Although his chest is covered with a shirt, it’s thin enough to be classed as a second skin, leaving next to nothing to the imagination. Stiles could pick out the exact shade of his nipples on a color chart. It also doesn’t help that the top few buttons are undone, showing off a delicate tuft of fair curls that Stiles fails miserably to avert his gaze from. He has dark, dusty colored hair, not overly styled or in order but looks incredibly soft to touch, and heavens above, Stiles’ fingers are physically twitching with the desire to thread themselves through it.

Stiles guesses this is probably as casual as this guy lets himself get in public; he seems the type to practically live in an immaculate, three-piece Armani suit—something that probably costs more than a mortgage—with not a hair out of place. Still, Stiles is grateful to whatever deity blessed him with the chance to look upon this utter Adonis in the exact way he is now. 

He’s roughly the same height as Stiles, if not ever so slightly shorter, but that does _not_ take away from the crystal-clear authority radiating from him. He’s in charge, that’s in no way shape or form up for discussion, and if that doesn’t do things to Stiles—tingly things—then he doesn’t know what will.

The unfairly handsome stranger must be finding Stiles’ reaction highly amusing if the shit-eating grin plastered over his divinely chiseled face is anything to go by. “It appears you have quite lost your ability to form words, sweet thing.”

“Er…”

_Damn it, get a grip._

The guy chuckles under his breath as he crosses his arms over his chest, and nope, that doesn’t help Stiles’ concentration at all. “What or whom exactly are you here for? As I can’t help but notice, you seem a little out of your comfort zone.” His voice doesn’t border on anything more than genuine curiosity, maybe some gentle concern for his sensibilities, but Stiles doesn’t feel like he’s being judged, at least not by this guy. It’s strangely calming.

“I, eh- I saw your ad. For the singer?” Queue the rambling. “I may have jumped the gun a bit and didn’t really research the ins and outs. I’m kinda regretting that now. I don’t think I’m high enough on the social ladder to be somewhere like this. I probably should’ve come to that realization after the fourth playboy mansion I drove past on my way here, yet here we are.” Although it’s obviously light-hearted humor on his part, he’s still kicking himself for being so stupid. Who in their right mind is going to hire someone who doubts their own validity?

“But,” Stiles continues before the Grecian God has a chance to linger on his words or agree with them. “Singing is something I’m very passionate about and good at so, while I may not visually fit in here, I’m one hundred percent certain I’ll make up for that with my voice. I’m also willing to sing absolutely anything you ask, like the ad said, even if that’s ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’ on repeat. I know quite a wide variety of songs, but even if you ask for something I don’t know, I’m a really quick learner, and yeah, I’m totally willing to learn, so…” he trails off; he doesn’t exactly have anything else to add but, even if he doesn’t land the job, he can still walk away proud of himself for acing the tooting-of-his-own-horn. Disappointed maybe, but pleased that he stood his ground and sold himself in front of a group of the most intimidating—and gorgeous—people he’s ever met.

The guy ponders on his reply for a long moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he mulls over Stiles’ words. Rejection is looking more and more likely an outcome with every passing second of his pause.

After what feels like an eternity—a definite exaggeration—his lips part to speak, “you saw the advertisement?”

Stiles’ brow creases minutely before he catches himself. _Really, that’s all he’s going with?_ “I mean, yeah, the one in the Daily News? But, seriously, dude, you should’ve just gone ahead and advertised via town crier for your efforts ’cause hardly anyone reads the newspaper nowadays.”

That gets him an amused smile—bonus points for Stiles.

“Hm, true, everything is online now. I guess you could just call me old-fashioned.”

Stiles snorts, “that’s very low on the list of things I could probably call you.”

It takes a second for the realization to dawn on him, his face dropping towards the floor, his whole body tensing as his eyes open comically wide.

Ground, please open up and swallow him whole.

Standing in front of him is his potential boss, and he’s just openly quipped out a remark that could be seen as flirtatious or just downright lecherous. He inhales a quick breath, holding it, closing his eyes, and bowing his head, waiting for the inevitable “get the fuck out” that’smost likely on its way.

To his immense surprise, it never comes.

Instead, his eyes snap open when the sound of the stranger barking out a laugh fills his eardrums. He couldn’t stop the small smile forming on his lips at the sight before him, even if he tried. He thought this guy couldn’t get any more attractive, but seeing him with his head thrown back and genuine amusement embellishing his features, proves him so wrong.

“I like you, Stiles,” he states once he’s reeled himself back.

Had Stiles been paying more attention, he might’ve quicker recalled that he never actually told this guy his name, but before he can dwell on it, he’s hit with...

“The job’s yours.”

The guy looks as if he’s about to turn on his heel, rendering the conversation over, but Stiles can’t let him just leave it there. “Wh-what? You haven’t even heard me sing. I could be completely overselling myself here… a-and how exactly do you know my name?” Everything rushes out of his mouth at once, managing thankfully to only stutter on a few of the words.

It gets him another one of those predatory smirks, but at least the guy doesn’t make any more moves to leave. “Alright, then. Sing for me.” It doesn’t seem like a request, more like an order, but God does the command do funny things to Stiles’ insides.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Er, okay, well, what would you like to hear?”

“Something… _seductive_.”

Seductive? What the fuck does that even mean? Has this guy seen Stiles? He’d quicker sing Eminem than something even remotely alluring.

“Right.” He nods sharply, tilting his head in the direction of the piano on the stage. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

With a quick appreciative smile, Stiles wanders over to the few steps at the side of the stage; taking care not to fall flat on his face, he moves up them with as much grace as he can muster. Every eye in the room follows him, and how he didn’t miss that. He almost forgot about Tweedledum and Tweedledee; they haven’t so much as moved a muscle since their Boss entered the room.

Even if they had, Stiles has been too busy directing his focus and conversation to the man in charge to really notice.

He carefully takes a seat on the piano stool, trying his best to handle this beauty with as much care as an instrument of this high quality deserves. He plays a few keys, getting a feel for it. It’s not that he’s forgotten how to play; he just needs to take a second to reacquaint himself. His weapon of choice is the guitar, but since he left his pride and joy back at his apartment, he settles for his second best.

He can play a variety of instruments well, but with living in a small apartment and funds being a little low at the moment, the Fender he was given for his fourteenth birthday by his father is the most practical option. 

A loud sigh snaps him from his musings. “Take your time.” It’s Erica who speaks, her voice laced with sarcasm. She gets a glare from Boyd for her efforts, but while that’s enough to silence her, there’s still a smugness radiating from every pore.

Boss-man isn’t paying attention to either of them; his focus solely fixed on Stiles. “Whenever you are ready, sweetheart.”

How this guy can emit all the authority and intensity of a world-class drug lord and still be incredibly soft is beyond Stiles. It once again eases his nerves.

On the spot, he decides to glide into a slowed-down remix of ‘Crazy in Love’. The original doesn’t quite suit his deep voice, so he altered it to better fit his tone. It could be perceived as seductive.

Well, he hopes it does.

_“You got me looking so crazy, my baby. I’m not myself. Lately, I’m foolish; I don’t do this. I’ve been playing myself, baby, I don’t care…”_

He loses himself in the words, every syllable low and raspy as they dance across his tongue.

_“Baby, your loves got the best of me. Baby, you’re making a fool of me. You got me sprung, but I don’t care who sees ‘cause, baby, you got me, you got me, oh, you got me…”_

For a few moments, he forgets where he is, too engrossed in the sweet melody to think about anything else. This is how it always affects him; every time he plays, his mind swirls into a heady, euphoric bliss.

His happy place.

_“Got me looking so crazy right now, your loves got me looking so crazy right now…”_

He’d planned on only giving a preview of his voice, a verse, maybe two, to prove he wasn’t talking out of his arse. But as the chorus comes to an end, the notes fading to their conclusion, he realizes just how enthralled he is to the music.

It’s mesmerizing.

His fingers kiss the last few keys, lingering for a moment even after the words have finished flowing from his throat.

“When can you start?”

Stiles jolts back to reality, suddenly conscious of the looming body leaning against the piano just a few inches away from him. “I- As soon as you need me?”

Christ, this guy will give him a heart attack if he keeps up his unnervingly quiet movements.

“Excellent, be here tomorrow evening at six o’clock. _Sharp_. We don’t open until eight, but we have a few more things to discuss before you start.” Mr. Whatever-his-name-is taps the top of the piano, way more carelessly than Stiles can cope with—it makes him wince internally—before he saunters his way down the stage’s steps.

Stiles scrambles from the stool to follow, a little bit over-eager. “I’m free now if you wanted to go over anything?”

“As much as I would love to get to know you better, sweetheart, I have somewhere to be,” he replies as he continues walking without even sparing a glance back at Stiles. “Plus, I need to go ahead and write up your contract. Some of the things I want to discuss may take time and may even result in you retracting your application, so better to do it tomorrow.”

“Unless this is some freaky sort of murderer’s collective or something, you can trust me when I say: I won’t be backing out. You have no idea how grateful I am for this opportunity. I swear you won’t regret it.”

That makes the man stop abruptly in his tracks; Stiles only just manages to halt himself in time before ramming into the back of him. _Ha._

“ _Or something,_ _”_ he repeats Stiles’ words slowly, turning to give him a look that he can’t quite decipher. It makes Stiles’ brow furrow curiously. “Have a good evening, Stiles. Boyd will see you out.” He smiles kindly, tossing Boyd a nod as he continues to walk away.

Holy shit, he’s done it. He’s got the job. It takes all his willpower to tamper down on his ecstatic emotions. All he wants to do is fist-pump the air and do his embarrassing victory dance, but he manages to keep it cool.

The guy strolls towards the red curtain Stiles guesses he appeared from earlier—the same one he and Boyd had come through. Probably retreating to his office now that all is said and done.

Surprisingly, Stiles is able to keep the ogling to a minimum—that ass should honestly be illegal—so he can ask one more thing before the dude leaves. “Wait… Wh-what’s your name?”

The stranger stops once again but doesn’t turn around, just twists his head enough to speak back over his shoulder, “Peter... Hale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick disclaimer: I will be including a lot of music lyrics throughout the fic as I think it's nice to see the words instead of just imagining them, but I do not own any of the songs or lyrics I am going to be posting, all rights and credit go to the original artists.
> 
> Stiles is singing the [Fifty Shades Of Grey remix](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yl93YBpTBbU) of Crazy In Love by Beyonce. It is very lovely, and the only song I could think of that was relatively sexy. [Here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31wDrnLrNgU) a version of it that someone has altered to sound more male, so maybe take a listen to that too. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has never claimed to be a good man, but he can be a patient one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Peter's POV of the last chapter—I will be alternating between Stiles and Peter throughout this fic, so just be aware of that. 
> 
> I won't lie to you, Peter is still a narcissistic arsehole, but he's a total King so IDGAF.
> 
> All mistakes are still mine, blah, blah, blah. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Peter is sprawled out, quite contentedly, on a heavenly leather couch in one of the private suites near the club’s entrance, leisurely trawling through the first month’s numbers.

Typically, all his paperwork is done in his office, which is on the other side of the club, but today he fancied a change of scenery.

This room has always been his favorite; it’s light and airy, elegant and minimalistic. It’s the only one of these rooms with entirely different décor; the rest are all some variation of dark and mysterious, much like the rest of the building, except with the odd little touch giving them their _uniqueness_.

This is Peter's room and only his. It offers him somewhere to relax and unwind when the days get too long, or he’s too far in his own head to be comfortable.

It's also a good place to formulate his bloody plans of revenge, but that's another story.

This is the only space in the entire club that isn’t communal. The one single room that’s strictly off-limits to guests. Unless explicitly invited, of course.

A quick glance at his wristwatch tells him a few hours have passed since he locked himself in here to get some work done. He’s just about to call it a day when his ears pick up a peculiar sound. Well, not _peculiar_ as such, but he can’t quite place it. It’s a voice, he knows that much, but it’s not the voice of anyone whom he’s familiar with—be it pack or patron.

Peter makes it his business to know every single human and supernatural that walks through his club’s door. He also prides himself in his impeccable memory; no matter how many people he’s met over his life, somewhere in the back of his mind, he can always marry up a voice or scent to a face.

But, this one… this one is new.

He stands from his casual position, striding over to the door, taking care to keep his steps gentle. He doesn’t open it; he just leans in a little closer to hear more clearly. The soundproofing in the building is flawless; it has to be with the type of club it is, so even with the gift that is his advanced werewolf hearing, he has to squint to make out every word.

“What’s your name, kid?” He hears Boyd ask, his words muffled.

“Er, Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.”

Peter can’t recall ever meeting a _Stiles_ Stilinski. He can remember—very vividly—an older gentleman of the same family name who goes by _Noah_. He wonders briefly if it’s a relation, as it certainly isn’t the man himself. This Stilinski is young, maybe not much older than twenty.

A son, perhaps?

Peter tilts his ear back towards the door but hears no more voices. Boyd never was a talkative one; it’s part of the reason why Peter likes him so much. What he can hear, though, is the rabbit beating of the stranger’s heart, no doubt feeling a little overwhelmed with the intensity of the large bodyguard’s stare.

Much to Peter's dismay, focusing on that rapid pounding beat makes his wolf see red; he wants nothing more than to rip the door between them off its hinges and snarl at Boyd until he backs off, until he’s cowering and whimpering like a wounded pup.

Peter takes a deep breath to calm himself, shaking his head to clear all unwelcome thoughts of forcing his beta into submission.

_What the fuck is that all about?_

He takes pride in his stellar self-control, but for some reason—a reason utterly unknown to him at this present time—this stranger is affecting his bestial side in ways he’s never experienced before.

And that’s without even speaking to the man, let alone seeing him.

He pushes away that train of thought before he comes up with something he doesn’t want to dwell on, instead listening intently as the footsteps retreat down the hall, fading into quiet. He takes a step back, turning to make his way over to the couch. His paperwork is strewn haphazardly across the expensive red leather, but he isn’t in any mind to clear it away. He can do that later once he’s thoroughly acquainted himself with the compelling stranger.

Moving around the room, he takes a quick inspection of himself in the mirror hanging on the back wall. Although he already knows he’s exceptionally handsome, he just wants to make sure he doesn’t look _too_ casual for meeting someone who could potentially be a new client. His hair is a little more chaotic than he would generally deem acceptable, but he still looks presentable. His beard was freshly trimmed this morning, and he dons the shirt and trousers of a rather costly three-piece suit.

His waistcoat, jacket, and tie are in his office, hanging up in the closet to save them from creases before wearing them this evening. In hindsight, he wishes he’d brought them with him when relocating to his suite.

No matter, he still looks professional enough.

He stalks back over to the door and, after a moment’s hesitation, yanks it open to walk through. As soon as he takes his first step into the hallway, he rears back as if struck, the stranger’s smell hitting him at full pelt.

By the Gods, it’s utterly intoxicating.

The door swings closed behind him, clicking into place, his whole body collapsing against it. He lets his eyes flutter shut, lungs expanding frantically as they take in deep, greedy breaths.

He can smell the man’s nervousness, yet also his curiosity. It’s mingled with his betas authoritative scent, and if that doesn’t make his wolf rumble threateningly, low in his chest, then he doesn’t know what would.

Peter fights once again to will the beast to settle, focusing keenly on the natural scent of the stranger—the scent beneath the sour aroma of panic. Honey and lemon, fresh green leaves and earthy forest soil, roasted chestnuts, and warm cinnamon spice.

If Peter thought for a second he’d be welcomed at the pearly gates after his passing, he’s confident this is the smell he’d be greeted with, the smell he’d spend the eternity of his afterlife consuming. It's so pure, so divine only heaven could be deemed worthy enough to contain it.

At the same time, though the very notion makes him pause, he can’t help associate this ambrosial scent to _home._

Something isn’t making sense, and Peter would be lying if he said it didn’t startle him. It isn’t quite fear, just a mild inconvenience more than anything else. Peter is intelligent; he probably—definitely—knows more than most. He sees no point in being modest about it.

He knows what he is and knows what he’s not. He’s well aware of his many talents and strengths, so there’s no point in hiding his natural ability to find out, or already know, pretty much everything. But something, in this very moment, is causing his control to slip, and he can’t confidently say what.

To be perfectly blunt, it’s pissing him off.

He has an inkling, but until he meets the stranger face to face, he doesn’t want to assume, and _that_ is what pushes his feet forward.

He lingers behind the red curtain for a moment, steeling his nerves—he’s not nervous, dammit—for the encounter. When he hears an opportunity to make himself known, he draws back the velvet fabric, strolling casually onto the club’s main floor.

“… but Christ on a bike, I’m surely not that much of an oddity.” The stranger’s voice sounds a lot deeper when it isn’t muted behind several layers of concrete and wood.

He also has guts; Peter will give him that. It takes the bravest—or most stupid—of men and women to stand their ground against Boyd and Erica. Peter is almost proud for the few seconds it lasts before he hears an audible gulp, watching as the stranger takes a retreating step back. 

“Please accept my apologies,” Peter interrupts, his voice oozing leadership, delighting in the way the man’s body goes tense. “Boyd and Erica can be a little _intimidating_ , hence why I hired them, but if they’ve made you feel uncomfortable, I shall see to it personally that they are punished.” He allows his eyes to bleed red at the mention of punishment, smirking as his betas finally notice their Alphas presence.

Stiles’ head jerks up at hearing him speak, and he senses the subtle _blip_ in his heartbeat. He also doesn’t fail to notice the slight shiver that takes over the man’s limbs at his commanding tone.

_Interesting._

The stranger doesn’t turn around right away, his body frozen to the spot as his gaze scours the area in front of him for the offending entity. It makes Peter want to chuckle. Deer caught in headlights coming to mind.

He chooses to take pity on the poor human, prowling forward until he’s inches away from touching. The delicious scent once again assaults him at full force, but with his beta’s watchful eyes upon him, he manages to keep his expression neutral as he leans in to purr in Stiles’ ear. “And who, may I ask, are you?”

Peter smirks at the effect his voice has on the man in front of him. He loves how easy it is to sneak up on humans; their reactions are always delightful.

The smug smile on his face, however, drops instantly as Stiles turns to face him.

Moon above, he’s the most beautiful creature Peter has ever seen.

Whiskey brown eyes stare back at him, like pools of warm honey, sparkling a wonderful orange ember whenever they catch the light. Peter takes a breath to school himself; the last thing he wants is to make evident his predicament, but being faced with such ethereal beauty, has him truly struggling for composure.

Stiles seems to be having his own mental malfunction, his sinfully plump lips falling open, and Gods does that just fill Peter's head with all manner of devilishly inappropriate images. There’s no doubt this young man would look positively radiant down on his knees.

Peter clenches his jaw hard, willing away the depraved thoughts clouding his judgment. He takes advantage of Stiles’ astonished silence to subtly look his fill, keeping a tight rein on his expression so as not to give himself away. Or at least not be as obvious as the human with the fish-out-of-water look he’s sporting.

The young man looks only just beyond boyhood. Peter had deciphered when first hearing his voice that he’d not be much older than twenty-two, and now, seeing clearly his youthful, mole-dotted face, he can wholeheartedly confirm this assumption. 

The attire hanging from his lithe frame is not something Peter would have ever expected to see in his establishment, but it suits the figure it covers. Much to Peter’s annoyance, though, he can’t quite make out any fine details from under the fabric, unlike what he knows Stiles is shamelessly ogling on his own person at this very moment. Still, he can see broad shoulders, long nimble fingers, and slender legs that go on for miles. He imagines the man to be an athletic type rather than a bodybuilder, and undoubtedly concealed beneath that frankly boring gray plaid is a magnificent expanse of pale, lean muscle that could be contorted into any number of extremely flexible positions.

One can dream.

The boy is roughly the same height as Peter, perhaps ever so slightly taller, but that doesn’t bother him. Peter is well aware that he displays nothing less than complete dominance, and he doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ body curls in on itself submissively at the realization. 

A new scent envelops his senses, something richer—muskier—and fuck, does that test his control to the absolute limits. Stiles is more than pleased with Peter’s appearance. A fact that makes his wolf preen.

A primal grin sweeps over Peter’s face, deciding it’s about time to fill the silence. “It appears you have quite lost your ability to form words, sweet thing.”

He notices the slight quiver he receives at the pet name, his smirk deepening as the thick, cloying scent gets more robust with his words.

“Er…”

_Oh, how adorable._

Peter breathes out a sort-of laugh at the young man’s inability to speak. He then resolves to be particularly cruel, crossing his arms over his chest to better show off his muscles.

It works like a charm.

“What or whom exactly are you here for? As I cannot help but notice, you seem a little out of your comfort zone.” He keeps his voice gentle as if trying to soothe a trembling beta; it seems to coax the boy out of his speechlessness.

“I, eh- I saw your ad. For the singer? I may have jumped the gun a bit and didn’t really research the ins and outs. I'm kinda regretting that now. I don’t think I’m high enough on the social ladder to be somewhere like this. I probably should’ve come to that realization after the fourth playboy mansion I drove past on my way here, yet here we are.”

The boy is rambling, but Peter can’t help find it endearing. With anyone else, he would’ve ordered Boyd to arse and neck them out the front door for wasting his time, but now, for reasons finally one hundred percent clear to him, it just adds to the list of things he already finds achingly attractive about the human.

About his _mate_.

Before he can wander too far into his thoughts, Stiles starts again, “but, singing is something I’m very passionate about and good at, so, while I may not visually fit in here, I’m one hundred percent certain I’ll make up for that with my voice. I’m also willing to sing absolutely anything you ask, like the ad said, even if that’s ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’ on repeat. I know quite a wide variety of songs, but even if you ask for something I don’t know, I’m a really quick learner, and yeah, I’m totally willing to learn, so…” he drifts off at the end, the subtle aroma of pride wafting off him, making Peter’s chest swell before a distinct cloud of anxiety rises to quash anything positive. The stretching silence between them obviously concerns him, but Peter must learn to walk before he runs.

Having his mate in his vicinity every day could either be a blessing or a curse. He internally berates himself for not knowing how to deal with the situation. “You saw the advertisement?”

Stiles’ eyebrows knit together in a frown at his vague reply, but at the moment, it’s all he can think of to say, keeping the boy’s mouth busy while he figures out his bearings seems like the best course of action.

Or it could prove more distracting for Peter.

“I mean, yeah, the one in the Daily News? But, seriously, dude, you should’ve just gone ahead and advertised via town crier for your efforts ‘cause hardly anyone reads the newspaper nowadays.”

Peter lets himself smile at the young man’s humor. “Hm, true, everything is online now. I guess you could just call me old-fashioned,” he comments without much thought, his attention not entirely on the conversation. 

“That’s very low on the list of things I could probably call you.”

Now that gets his attention.

Stiles’ whole body tenses, his eyes opening comically wide. Peter’s filthy mind comes up with numerous things he would _love_ to hear his mate call him before a laugh erupts from deep within his gut.

This delightful creature will be the death of him, he just knows it, but he can’t find it in himself to give an ounce of a shit. “I like you, Stiles,” he states once he’s reeled himself back in, only realizing his error a few seconds too late.

Stiles hasn’t actually told him his name. He’d heard it through the door when he’d told Boyd. He sees it in those golden rays the moment Stiles realizes it too, but before the young man can question him or Peter can talk himself out of the idea, he blurts out, “the job’s yours.”

He startles at his own words, deciding it best to vacate the premises promptly before his betas recognize his inner turmoil.

Alas, he isn’t so lucky. He gets halfway turned before the boy speaks again. “Wh-what? You haven’t even heard me sing. I could be completely overselling myself here… a-and how exactly do you know my name?” Everything rushes out of the human’s mouth at once, but Peter isn’t paying too much attention.

He’s still busy damning himself for his momentary lapse in restraint.

Taking a steadying breath, he plasters on one of his signature smirks, eliciting a shallow gasp from his mate. “Alright, then. Sing for me,” he commands. Not that he meant it to come out that way, but he’s just too much enjoying the young man’s natural obedience to retract it.

He adores the full-body shudder his Alpha tone gives the human, and at that moment, he promises himself he’ll do absolutely everything in his power to see that reaction as often as possible.

“Er, okay, well, what would you like to hear?”

“Something… _seductive,”_ Peter rumbles, watching patiently as the cogs tick over in the young man’s head, no doubt desperately trying to find something in his mind's songbook that even remotely resembles seduction. 

“Right.” Stiles inclines his head in the direction of the pianoforte on the stage. “May I?”

While Peter usually doesn’t let just anyone handle the marvelous instrument, this one time, he can make an exception. “Be my guest.”

Stiles wanders over to the few steps at the side of the stage, Peter’s eyes following his every movement carefully. He can tell that the young human is trying his best to be graceful, it’s working this time, but Peter can’t seem to hush the little voice in his head chanting in prayer for him to trip and fall. If only to give Peter an excuse to comfort him with his touch.

He never claimed to be a good man. 

Once seated, Stiles moves his nimble fingers over a few keys, the sound filling the empty room beautifully. Peter closes his eyes, indulging in the random notes now echoing in the space between his eardrums.

That is until one of his betas decides to pipe up.

“Take your time.” It’s Erica who speaks, unsurprisingly, her voice laced with the usual catty sarcasm.

Peter doesn’t even bother scolding her childishness; Boyd will do it for him. But he does choose to reassure the nervous human who seems to have startled with Erica’s impatience. “Whenever you are ready, sweetheart.”

All the pent-up tension leaves the boy’s body in a long breath, and Peter only has to wait a moment longer before the human flows into a slow enchanting melody.

_“You got me looking so crazy, my baby. I’m not myself. Lately, I’m foolish; I don’t do this. I’ve been playing myself, baby, I don’t care…”_

To say Peter is stunned would be a gross understatement. Never in his life has he heard something so angelic.

The boy’s words circle Peter in a tight embrace, warming him from the inside out. A fire ignites low in his belly, desire threatening to consume him.

His mate is undeniably perfect.

_“Baby, your loves got the best of me. Baby, you’re making a fool of me. You got me sprung, but I don’t care who sees ‘cause, baby, you got me, you got me, oh, you got me…”_

Before Peter even knows he’s moving, his feet take each step up to the stage with practiced ease. His body following the sound to its source as his mind gets lost in the fog of every sweet harmonious note.

_“Got me looking so crazy right now, your loves got me looking so crazy right now…”_

Stiles lets the music flow through him for several moments longer, fingers dancing over the keys, seemingly zoning out entirely to his surroundings.

Peter props himself against the instrument, eyes fixed solely on his mate's enticingly pouty lips, shallowing his breath so as not to miss a single syllable. 

“When can you start?” he asks as soon as the sound stops, though he’s under no illusion that the melody will dance erotically through his mind for days to come.

Stiles jumps out of his thoughts, suddenly conscious of Peter's looming presence. “I- As soon as you need me?”

That is exactly what Peter wanted to hear. “Excellent, be here tomorrow evening at six o’clock. _Sharp_. We don’t open until eight, but we have a few more things to discuss before you start.” He has one or two crucial points he needs to discuss with the human before the boy fully accepts the position, but right now, he just wants to go back to his suite and reel over the last twenty minutes of his life until he passes out from sheer exhaustion.

Peter brings his hands down on top of the piano, rendering the conversation over he moves towards the stage’s steps.

“I’m free now if you wanted to go over anything?”

“As much as I would love to get to know you better, sweetheart, I have somewhere to be,” Peter lies. “Plus, I need to go ahead and write up your contract. Some of the things I want to discuss may take time and may even result in you retracting your application, so better to do it tomorrow,” he explains as he continues walking without even sparing a glance back at Stiles.

He already has the standard format for the contract on his computer, so he doesn’t have to worry about that, but it’s the only thing he can come up with on the spot to get the young man out the door.

Stiles snorts behind him. “Unless this is some freaky sort of murderer’s collective or something, you can trust me when I say: I won’t be backing out. You have no idea how grateful I am for this opportunity. I swear you won’t regret it.”

That makes Peter stop abruptly. The nonchalance in which his mate just said those words make him wonder. How can a boy as young as this be so casual about taking a job without first knowing exactly what he may or may not be getting himself into?

This young man has seen things; that’s the only explanation. What exactly, Peter will have to find out.

“ _Or_ _something_ _,_ ” he parrots as he assesses his mate. He’s definitely not supernatural, that’s for sure, but there is _something_ about him. Snapping himself out of his musings quickly, he smiles at the confused expression on the boy’s face. “Have a good evening, Stiles. Boyd will see you out.” He tosses Boyd a nod before continuing on his path.

Peter is almost at the red curtain, almost out of the overwhelming fog of _mate_ , when he gets stopped yet again. “Wait… Wh-what’s your name?”

He doesn’t bother turning around, lest his wolf decides to keep the man here all evening to… interrogate him. He twists his head enough to speak back over his shoulder, voice instinctively dropping low. “Peter… Hale.”

And with that, he leaves the room, marching down the hall to his suite, slamming the door none too delicately behind him. He slumps back against the door, letting out a bone-deep exhale as he runs his hands over his face and through his hair.

He’s found his mate.

He’s _hired_ his mate.

Fuck, had anyone else said those words, Peter would’ve laughed at the implication, but right now, he just wants to hide away for the next few years and forget about the whole ordeal.

At thirty-seven, Peter had subconsciously come to terms with the fact he was never going to meet his mate. Though every wolf has one, not all are lucky—or unlucky, depending on your viewpoint—enough to meet them. Mother Moon does her best to put them in your path, but things happen. Life happens.

Peter's life has been nothing less than chaotic, so he’s not entirely surprised he’s managed this far without yet coming across the other half of his own soul. Mother Moon is probably cursing him for his inability to sit still long enough for her to work her magic, considering all the times he’s had to move over the years due to circumstances beyond his control.

Somehow—by some Godly intuition probably—she must’ve known Peter would eventually settle in San Francisco and so led his mate right to his doorstep.

Oh, she’s a sneaky ole witch.

Peter lets out a bitter laugh at the absurdity of it all, sliding his body down the door, flopping unceremoniously onto the soft carpet below. He loosens a few more of his buttons, suddenly overheating, sweat dripping down the side of his face and off his chin, soaking into the white fabric of his shirt. He lets his head loll backward, connecting to the door with a resounding _thump_.

There’s nothing he can do about it now. He’s met his mate, and unless he wants to drive himself feral, he just has to suck it up and harmoniously co-exist with the young man.

Not that it’ll be any genuine hardship, his mate is the epitome of perfection—not that he’d expect any less. He doesn’t doubt for a second that he’d be able to charm him into his bed with minimal effort, but much to his dismay, for once in his laborious life, sex—while still on his mind—isn’t a top priority.

There must be something seriously awry.

He wants to take it slow, which is an utterly ridiculous notion when attributed to a man like Peter. He has the unyielding desire to let the young man come to him on _his_ terms. If only to see if the connection he feels goes both ways or if he’s now cursed to live the rest of his miserable life being the only one who can feel this painful yet truly gratifying euphoria.

Not that he’d ever admit it out loud, but it scares him how much he’s already willing to follow this man to the ends of the earth after only meeting him once.

Not even the human’s ‘love at first sight’ phenomenon works this quickly. This _intensely_.

He should’ve just told his curiosity to go fuck itself the minute he heard Stiles’ voice. Why does he have to be so damned inquisitive?

A long-suffering sigh escapes his lips. What’s done is done. The clock isn’t about to turn back just to save him the inconvenience he’s now being subjected to. He’ll just have to suffer.

How hard can it be? He’ll be in the young man’s presence almost every day, his scent never being left long enough to go faint; surely that will appease his wolf? Even if it’s just a temporary solution until Peter figures out what exactly he’s going to do.

He can’t think straight right now; the sweet lingering aroma of his mate is fogging his mind, leaving his ability to rationalize as a heaping puddle of shit on the floor. He’ll sleep on it, and tomorrow-

Tomorrow, Stiles will come in to talk, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll back out of the whole idea, especially after Peter tells him everything.

His wolf whines at the very notion, already bonded to the idea of having a mate, not willing to comprehend the idea of him leaving now.

_Fuck._

Peter can’t have a mate. Not one so young and inexperienced. His lifestyle won’t allow it. He would more than welcome the man sharing his bed for a casual rut, but he can’t even fathom a relationship. That’s not something Peter does. Has ever done.

Sex is his vice, but love isn’t something he’s experienced or ever counted on experiencing. A mate messes with that rule. Twists it into something incomprehensible. He can’t, in good conscience, put this delightful boy through the shit his life choices will undoubtedly drag up.

Unfortunately for Stiles, Peter never has understood the principle of a ‘good conscience’. He’s done some terrible things—evil things—to get where he is now, and worst of all, he regrets none of it. Perhaps even worse than that, he doesn’t count on giving up his moral ambiguity anytime soon, not with _certain_ enemies of his still prowling the streets. 

Deep down, Peter knows even attempting to be the good guy and do the right thing is falling on deaf ears. His bullshit isn’t even convincing himself anymore. He can’t fight his wolf on this.

He _won’t_.

He will, however, just let it ride itself out. He can control his urges enough to let the young human fall into his lap without having to manipulate the situation. That’s about as close to honorable his immoral self can extend to.

Peter has never claimed to be a good man, but he can be a patient one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things may be starting to look up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for you guys. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

Stiles can’t wait until he’s back at his apartment so he can ring Scottie to tell him the good news. He’s practically vibrating out of his skin with the overwhelming onslaught of emotions now building up inside him.

No doubt his friend will take most of the credit since he was the one to point out the ad to him in the first place, but Stiles is too on top of the world to care. He’ll happily let his friend revel in the glory, even go as far as sitting with all the patience of a saint through Scottie’s inevitable rant on how his hatred towards technology is the main reason he even saw it in the first place.

He’s just so frickin’ elated.

Once the initial excitement has worn off, he’s sure that’s when the usual anxiety will creep in. Especially since he left the place with way more questions than answers, the whole situation, without a doubt, earning the top spot of his ‘Strangest Interview's He’s Ever Experienced’ list—yes, there is a list. Still, at this moment, he’s going to push all that aside and, for once, take adequate time to relish in the complete and utter bliss washing over him.

Things may be starting to look up.

He drives straight into his designated parking space at his apartment, uncaring if the wheels are perfectly inside the bold white lines—he can worry about that later. He wrestles his phone out of his jean pocket, a curse on the tip of his tongue regarding the skin-tight fabric before he remembers he’s aiming for positive vibes only.

Phone finally in his palm, he taps Scott’s name on his list of most recent contacts, mentally counting out the seconds until his friend picks up. “Come on. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up,” he chants, leg bouncing restlessly in his impatience.

His whole body is shaking by the time the line finally connects. “Hey man,” Scott’s cheery voice chirps through the device, making Stiles’ heart warm with fondness. “What’s up?”

“Scottie, ole buddy, ole pal,” he returns eagerly, no doubt sounding a little manic. “You’ll never guess what?”

Scott hums, “you got the job?”

“I got the-” It takes Stiles a second to register, already halfway through answering his own question in his enthusiasm. “Wait, how’d you guess?”

“Well, I can’t see you, man, but you sound as if you’re one second away from bouncing off the walls, and that can only mean one of two things. One, you finally came out of your dry spell and got laid. Or, two, you got that job I pointed out to you this morning. Since I only left you a few hours ago, I doubt you’ve had much of a chance for option one, so, through the process of elimination, that only leaves option two.” Scott sounds almost clinical in his assessment, voice neutral, completely unaffected, not like he’s just Sherlock Holmes’d him through the phone.

Stiles blinks, suddenly filled with the urge to check every corner of the Jeep for cameras. “You seriously scare me sometimes.”

Scott laughs. “I know you, bro; you would never have ignored that ad. Your curiosity wouldn’t have allowed it.” Stiles unwittingly nods along. It’s true, his friend knows him well. “Anyways, I’m so happy for you, man. Tell me everything.”

“Holy shit, Scottie,” Stiles exclaims, arms flailing around him as he delves into his unrestrained rambles. “It was the weirdest interview I’ve had in my life. If you could even call it that? There was no number to call, so I just turned up at the place. But fuck, it’s absolutely stunning, and I felt incredibly out of my comfort zone, but Scottie, I get to sing. I. Get. To. Sing. _”_ Stiles lets out a tiny squeal of joy, balancing the device between his shoulder and ear so he can clap through his glee. “I’m so happy. Can you actually believe it?”

Stiles decides not to mention the sex-on-legs that is his boss or anything about the two bodyguards who looked at him like they were sizing him up for a coffin. At least not yet. There isn’t really a need to mention it; it isn’t strictly necessary. He got the job, and that’s what Scottie wants to hear.

They may be best buds, but he’d probably not welcome a visual of the leading contender in Stiles’ next wet dream.

“Course I can believe it. Your voice is amazing, Stiles. _You_ are amazing.”

Stiles’ face splits into a megawatt grin, heart literally about to combust. “Aww, thanks, buddy.”

His friend chuckles at his cooing. “Yeah, well, sometimes you need to be told ‘cause I don’t think you always believe it.”

It’s true, Stiles does suffer from bouts of self-consciousness, but he can always count on his buddy to knock the sense back into him.

He’s good with music; he knows it. He just needs to be reminded sometimes.

“So,” Scott continues, pulling him out from his thoughts. “When do you start? What’re your hours? Can you leave that shit-show of a coffee shop, or will you have to do both? Come on, man, give me the deets.”

Stiles flounders; he isn’t exactly sure what to say; he doesn’t know the answer to any of those questions. “Er, I wasn’t lying when I said it was _weird_. I feel like I left there knowing even less than I went in with. It’s a club on the high-end side of the city, and it looks pretty new. I’ll definitely be spending the rest of the night detective-ing the shit outta it.”

“What, they didn’t even tell you your hours or what the rate is?” Scott asks, confusion lacing his every word. “That’s… odd. I’m surprised you didn’t ask, or at the very least, research it to within an inch of its life before you got there.” 

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, well, I was in a bit of a go-now-before-I-think-on-it-too-hard-and-talk-myself-out-of-itkind of mindset, so I didn’t really give myself a chance to Google it to death. I’ll probably have to quit the coffee shop, but that’s not exactly a loss.” Scott hums knowingly, intimately familiar with all Stiles’ gripes towards his current place of employment. “I was just too focused on actually getting the job, but I guess I’ll find out everything else when I start tomorrow.”

“ _Tomorrow_ _?_ That’s soon.” Stiles can practically hear the gears whirring in Scottie’s head. “Do you not need to speak to Frank first and give some notice?”

Frank is his boss at the coffee shop. Total douche, and still salty that Stiles rejected his offer of a _‘good time’._

All three times.

Stiles will be fucked if he ever gives that bastard an inch.

“Fuck him.” Stiles shrugs, indifferent. “Where was my notice when he decided to reduce my hours from already next to nothing?”

“Fair,” Scott concedes. “So, that’s all you know? That you start tomorrow?” 

Fuck it; he can tell his bro a little more, if only to keep him in the loop. He’ll just keep the promise of endless sexual fantasies on the down-low.

“That, and my new boss is a _very_ nice gentleman called Peter Hale,” he admits, wiggling his eyebrows hoping his voice conveys the suggestive gesture. 

The sudden silence is deafening.

“Scottie? You there?” Stiles prompts, taking the phone off his ear to look at his screen, checking to see if they’re still connected. 

“ _Peter Hale_ ,” Scott repeats after a few seconds, his voice nothing more than a whisper. 

Stiles is confident his heart stops beating, his stomach sinking towards his ass. “Y-you know him?” He fails miserably at keeping himself calm and collected; he’s praying to any God who’ll listen that Scott isn’t about to tell him something that’ll completely ruin his day.

“ _Peter Hale_ ,” his friend parrots for the second time, and Stiles only just manages to stave off the rolling of his eyes, but that’s probably due to the next words that hit his ears. “As in _Alpha_ Peter Hale?”

Day ruined.

“Alpha?” Stiles all but screeches, barely registering his friend’s audible wince on the other end of the call. “He’s a goddamn werewolf?”

_Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck._

That explains so much. How had he not figured that out as soon as he walked through the club doors? His best friend’s a frickin’ wolf, for Christ’s sake. It should’ve been so obvious.

Looking back, all the signs were there. Plain as day. The sudden atmosphere change as soon as Peter entered the room. His lackeys’ falling into submission as soon as he spoke. Hell, even Stiles felt the Alpha dominance in his voice, and he’s human.

The way the man was able to advance on Stiles without him so much as hearing a single footstep. How he knew Stiles’ name without being told. The way he smirked or grinned whenever Stiles was ogling him. Sure, it probably didn’t take supernatural senses to decipher his reaction to the guy’s attractiveness, but his scent and rapid heartbeat would have made it unmistakable.

Oh, god, kill him now.

“Stiles, please calm down,” Scott tries to soothe him, but he’s too worked up to listen. 

“ _Calm down?_ _”_ he recites, a bit more harshly than intended. “Are you joking? You’ve just told me that my new boss is an Alpha werewolf. How do you expect me to calm down?” Scott doesn’t answer, or at least, Stiles doesn’t give him a chance to. “Why didn’t I realize? They’re probably all wolves, and I, dick-shit extraordinaire Stiles Stilinski, just waltzed right into their den as casual as get out.” He grips onto his hair, forehead connecting to the steering wheel with a resounding _thump_ , continuing his rant undeterred. “They’re a pack; it’s so obvious. Oh my god, I can’t work there. I mean, I’ve nothing against wolf-kind, Scottie, you know that, but you’re my best friend. I trust you not to eat me.”

“Stiles, they won’t eat you,” Scott deadpans, and Stiles can sense the strain affiliated with one of his friend’s eye rolls. “Humans don’t taste too good.”

“Thanks, Scottie, that reassures me a bunch,” Stiles’ usual sarcasm fails to hit the mark; he can’t even muster up enough motivation to question exactly what events lead to his friend being able to say that last part with such conviction. Instead, he takes a few gulping breaths to calm his rising panic, shoulders slumping forwards before he manages to speak again. “H-how do you know him anyway?”

“How do you _not_ know him?” Scott answers in disbelief; Stiles thinks he even detects a hint of awe in his voice. “He’s from Beacon Hills. Surely, you’ve heard of the Hales? You know, the family that lived in that mansion in the preserve? The one that went up in flames just over ten years ago?” With Stiles’ silence, his friend continues, now sounding like one of those overenergized storytellers on the Disney channel. “All of them died, well, apart from two of the children, and Peter, their uncle. When the Alpha—his sister Talia—died, the spark was passed to Peter. Satomi always mentions him. He’s like _the_ _most_ ruthless and widely recognized Alpha known to werewolves. He’s spent the last decade exacting his revenge on the hunters that caused the fire; he’s totally merciless. I’ve heard some people call him the _‘Alpha of all Alphas’_. Kinda like Zeus, God of all-”

“Scottie,” Stiles interrupts the boy’s clear idolization of the man; it’s really not making him feel any better.

“Yeah?”

“Please stop,” he pleads softly; he may even whine a little.

“Sorry, bro.”

A resounding sigh forces its way past his teeth; he bangs his head distractedly against the hard leather wheel a few times, his mind floating away.

Of course something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. He just kind of wishes he’d at least gotten a few months of undisturbed peace before everything went to shit.

Truth be told, Stiles has been in the know about the supernatural ever since Scottie got bitten back in his first year at college. Stiles had come home for Christmas, and while they were out in the woods hunting for a dead body—long story, too long—a rogue Alpha bit him. It was pretty gruesome, but that’s not important.

It shouldn’t exactly be a shock to him that he’s now encountering more supernaturals on his way through life. But, the fact of the matter is, he hasn’t actually met another wolf, other than his best friend, so he wouldn’t exactly know what to expect, especially when it comes to an Alpha.

And that terrifies him.

He’d managed to help Scottie with his transition through sheer dumb luck. He’d scanned over a few research pages, but with only having a week to help his friend before he had to leave again, it didn’t exactly give him enough time to become anywhere near knowledgeable on the topic. 

Thankfully, Scott was able to get himself in with a local pack. The Ito’s. Apparently, they take on numerous supernatural waifs and strays from all over. Usually, it’s wolves who have lost their packs and are at high risk of becoming omega, but they take in others too. 

Stiles met a kitsune on his last visit home; she’s Scottie’s girlfriend and is absolutely magnificent. Kira is from the Yukimura family, not really a _pack_ but still quite involved with the Ito’s nonetheless. He’s also met a druid—a Master Druid at that—but never another wolf.

For some reason, they’ve just never gotten round to introducing Stiles to Scottie’s pack. Usually, when Stiles goes back home during the holidays, they spend their time just catching up or doing a shit-ton of de-stress drinking. Before they even blink, it’s time for him to go back to school. There’s never been much time for pack introductions.

Which really doesn’t help him now.

Had he met Scottie’s pack, he may have known what to do in this situation or at least felt a little more comfortable about the possibility of being the only human working in an all-wolf club. But no, it’s just one more thing Stiles has fucked-up on.

Stiles can’t seem to help his mind swarming with thoughts of Peter. It’s strange, but while he’d felt wholly intimidated from the moment he walked into the place, as soon as he heard Peter’s voice, he’d relaxed somewhat. Yes, his heart still beat ten to the dozen, but after the initial meeting, that wasn’t exactly out of fear. It was mostly arousal.

Maybe he should just give it a chance? While they’re highly dangerous predators that spout claws and fangs, with the strength of twenty men and can smell, see and hear everything over one hundred times better than a human can-

Where the hell is he going with this?

He can’t possibly risk his life for the sake of a job. While he’s well aware that humans can be dangerous and unpredictable, too, at least it’s a bit more unlikely that they’ll snap you in half without even breaking a sweat.

What if he says something wrong and offends one of them by accident? Which is seriously likely with his particular brand of verbal diarrhea. He knows next to nothing of their culture, beliefs, or how much incessant chatter they can handle before flipping their lid.

_Fuck._

“Scottie, this is just too much to process right now,” Stiles huffs, threading his fingers through his hair one last time as he lifts himself back up from his slouch. “I was on such a high, and now… now it’s all just crashing down around me. I need a minute to think. I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Stiles, I’m so sorry.” Scott makes a whimpering noise in his throat; it makes tears well up in the corner of Stiles’ eyes. “I wish I was there with you; I could've helped or maybe even gone there with you just to check it out-”

“No,” Stiles cuts the boy off before he can work himself up. The last thing he wants is his best friend feeling guilty. “It’s… it’s just a shit situation, Scottie, but I’ll be fine. I always am. I’ll figure something out.”

“I know you will. Just don’t do anything rash. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think? Just ‘cause he’s murdered tons of people doesn’t mean he won’t treat you with respect. An Alpha protects their pack, so as long as you aren’t a threat…” he trails off— _thankfully_. “Look, text me or ring me anytime, just let me know you’re okay.”

Stiles chooses not to comment on his friend’s first train of thought; at this point, he just wants to go to bed. “Thanks, man.”

“Love you, bro.” And with that, Scott ends the call.

This isn’t Scottie’s problem, but Stiles can’t help feel a pang of heartbreak at hearing the disconnecting tone. He wants his friend here. He _needs_ him here. Or even his dad. Just someone to tell him that it’ll all work itself out eventually.

Christ, he knows it could be so much worse. He knows, to an outsider looking in, he’s being overdramatic. Some people have literally nothing, and he’s sitting in his car outside his apartment with tears streaming down his face because life has decided to take another shit on him from a colossal height.

There are children out there and adults alike, who dream of all their fairy-tale creatures being real, but to Stiles, at this moment, it’s just another thing to worry about.

He isn’t even sure where this sudden prejudice is coming from. What exactly is he scared of? Is he afraid of them taking advantage? Not that they’ll really have to even try to get him to do whatever they ask; just flash their eyes once, and Stiles will do their bidding without even a second thought.

Is it the possibility of them turning him? Or maybe it’s the fact that Peter has clearly made quite a reputation for himself by avenging his family and is now practically seen as some sort of wolf-God. 

He honestly can’t even determine what it is that’s causing such a reaction. Just this deep-rooted fear that everything is bound to go wrong for him at some point.

It always does.

He’s snapped out of his momentary breakdown by the rattling _bang_ of the building’s front door. He quickly wipes his tears so he’s not seen blubbering in his car by the gaggle of students now swarming through the car park.

A sad laugh bubbles from his chest, a hollow, empty sound that threatens to choke him. He probably looks the absolute picture of the struggling college student that they fail to put on their sign-up posters and TV ads.

Once the mob is out of sight, he turns off the ignition, collecting himself as best he can before scrambling unceremoniously out of his Jeep. He’ll continue his self-pitying session within the minimal comfort of his apartment; he can at least still afford that dignity.

Hopefully, once he’s stressed himself out to the point of collapse, he can sleep on it, give himself more of a chance to clear his head before weighing his options.

He’ll figure it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I've missed anything—tags or warnings—let me know!
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who was he trying to kid? There was never a hoping hells chance he would ever just sleep on it. He would’ve needed a miracle or, at the very least, copious amounts of hard liquor for that to ever be achievable.
> 
> Unfortunately for his dwindling sanity, he didn’t have access to either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all still enjoying this—I swear it will get better in terms of an actual storyline.
> 
> Have some Stilinski feels in the meantime!

Who was he trying to kid? There was never a hoping hells chance he would ever just _sleep on it._ He would’ve needed a miracle or, at the very least, copious amounts of hard liquor for that to ever be achievable.

Unfortunately for his dwindling sanity, he didn’t have access to either.

From the moment he walked into his apartment up to now—now being ten o’clock the next morning—he hasn’t slept a wink. His mind too hyperactive to even contemplate sleep.

He’d taken the opportunity to do a bit more research on werewolves, but it didn’t exactly help. It’s one thing to look at pictures and scroll through several thousand myths and legends about them; It’s another thing entirely to get first-hand experience.

He also, in his emotional sleep-deprived state, decided he absolutely loathes himself for even thinking the discrimination he’s portraying is remotely acceptable.

They’re people too. Yes, not exactly human, but Jesus, his whole rant on the phone to Scottie must’ve made him sound like a right supernaturalphobe—which is definitely _not_ the case.

When he first found out that all the fairy-tales his mom read to him as a small child might actually have some truth to them, or at least the creatures in them, he’d been ecstatic, much like a kid in a proverbial candy store. To go from thinking werewolves, vampires, fairies, and witches—among other things—were all just figments of a child’s imagination to knowing they all actually exist among the human population had been the coolest thing he’d ever been told. He just hadn’t banked on them all looking so… ordinary.

Why wouldn’t they? He just assumed he would’ve been able to tell a supernatural creature at first glance, you know, with the fangs, the glowing eyes, the _wings_? But why would he think that?

He knows Scottie, Kira, and Deaton—Scott’s boss and aforementioned Master druid—all of which look like entirely regular everyday Joes up until the moment they either produce magic from their fingertips, glow orange with foxfire or sprout extra hair at the sight of a full moon.

It very suddenly dawns upon him that the only reason he’s seen those things is because they’re his _friends_. They trust him with their secret, but to the outside world, to every other human without the knowledge of the supernatural, they’re just normal people.

Well, normal-ish.

Had Scott not known Peter Hale, supposed ‘Alpha of all Alphas’, Stiles wouldn’t have known any different. He would’ve just gone to the club tonight, none the wiser. He would’ve figured it out eventually. Recent events notwithstanding, he’s smart, but with the stress of college and money, it’s no wonder he’d been completely oblivious.

So, why does knowing all this beforehand affect him so greatly? If anything, it should be better. Now he knows they’re a pack of werewolves, so he can prepare accordingly. He may not know a lot now, but with the correct sources and a several-hour undisturbed—minus the crippling anxiety—study session, he’s sure he could find it all out.

Somehow.

Or he could just ask? Peter wants to see him before he starts to _discuss_ some things. Perhaps this is what he wishes to bring up? Maybe he’s going to tell him their secret? Maybe he trusts him?

Peter had said that Stiles might retract his application after they talk everything through, and that doesn’t sound like a bloodthirsty werewolf who’s intent on playing with Stiles’ vulnerability and keeping him for his own amusement. No, Peter seems... genuine might be a stretch, he’s only met the wolf once, but on the surface, he doesn’t appear to harbor any ill intent. Especially not with all the ridiculously cute pet names he has for him.

How bad will it look if Stiles doesn’t show up? He can just imagine his excuse now…

“Sorry, Mr. Hale, I know I said you could trust me, but I’m freaking out over something I’ve known about for three years now, and I just don’t think I can take the job. Basically, I’m judging you on the standard of all those monstrous werewolves I’ve seen on TV. My sincere apologies for the inconvenience.”

Yeah, that’ll probably go down like a fart in a spacesuit. Peter would no doubt rip him a new asshole—and not in a good way—just for tarnishing him with the same brush as the CGI nightmares he seen on Twilight.

Scottie’s a sweet wolf. He’s a puppy dog, really, and from what he’s been told about the Ito pack, none of them would ever do a human a bad turn either, so what makes Peter’s pack so different?

Fuck it. It’s time for him to take control of his miserable existence; he’s already so far out of his comfort zone he’s practically in another continent, so why not just push himself even further into the sea? He won’t always have Scottie as backup, and now with extra confirmation that supernaturals do indeed look like regular humans, he’s counting on meeting a lot more of them throughout his life, so why not start now?

He staggers upright from his current position in the corner of his room. He can’t exactly remember how long he’s been sitting here with his knees tucked up to his chest, slowly rocking back and forth, but he can guarantee it’s been too long—if the ache in his back and arse are anything to go by.

He hobbles over to his bed, grabbing his phone from where he’d thrown it haphazardly after his dead-end research. He notes the intermittent notification light at the top corner; tapping the screen, he scans reluctantly over exactly how many people he’ll have to grovel to.

He cringes internally at the numerous missed calls and texts from Scott and his dad.

This won’t be good.

He opens Scott’s texts first ‘cause he knows what they’ll say before he even reads them anyway. There’s no point in letting the boy worry any longer; he knows how stressed out his friend can get when he doesn’t pick up.

It’s a wolf thing, apparently. They get possessive of people they care about or those they consider pack. Stiles can’t help find it endearing.

Scrolling through the messages, Stiles can clearly see his friends increasing concern.

_Scottie: Hey, man, how you doing?_

_Scottie: Stiles, let me know you’re okay._

_Scottie: Stiles, pick up._

_Scottie: Answer your phone!_

It’s in his best interest to get back to him before Scottie flips entirely and ends up making the journey back to check up on him in person. Stiles doesn’t think he could handle that right now.

_Stiles: Sorry, bro, went out like a light. Phone was on silent. I’m fine, don’t panic. Just needed to think everything through. Will ring you later._

Stiles knows his friend will detect the lie about the sleep, even without hearing his heartbeat. The boy knows him better than anyone, right down to the fact that he never sleeps when he has something on his mind. That’s mostly the reason he decides to text back instead of call. He feels a bit better lying to the wolf through words on a screen than to blatantly try covering up his heartbeat through actual conversation.

Scott’s always understanding about it, though. He lets Stiles cope with his problems himself but _always_ makes sure Stiles knows he’s there if he needs help. Even if it’s something Stiles believes insignificant, he insists that all Stiles’ problems are important to him. He never pushes the subject, never makes Stiles tell him anything he doesn’t want to, not unless he feels it's essential.

Stiles just isn’t one to ring up his friend after every slight inconvenience—he’d never be off the phone otherwise. He’s a private person, not secretive as such, he just doesn’t like to bother everyone with what he deems trivial issues, and Scott accepts that, but he’ll always be there for him if he decides to share. He’s a good friend.

The best, really.

Stiles opens the text from his dad. It’s not often he gets texts from him; the guy prefers to call. He’s not exactly what Stiles would call _old_ , but he’s one of those relatives that struggles with the concept of technology. He usually sends out something almost illegible, then sends another trying to correct it but ends up just making it totally undecipherable. It’s quite hilarious sometimes.

_Dad: h sonn how r yo scot worrid plea cal_

Stiles snorts to himself. God, he loves his dad. He thinks what the man is trying to say is something along the lines of: “Hey, son, how are you? Scott’s worried. Please call.”

Shit, Stiles must’ve gone off the radar for way too long, at least long enough for Scott to work himself into enough of a frenzy to get in touch with his father.

He let’s all the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding out through his mouth in a long sigh. It’s one thing to worry his overprotective werewolf best friend, but it’s something else entirely to worry, not only his dad, but the _Sheriff_ of Beacon County.

Stiles taps the man’s number, knowing it’ll be much less hassle for everyone involved if he just calls instead of texting back. It rings for a grand total of three seconds before connecting. “Stiles, where the hell are you? Scott says he’s been calling you all night, but you weren’t picking up. What’s happened?”

Stiles feels a tightness blooming in his chest at his dad’s concerned voice. There’s also that blatant undertone of authority that comes with being a cop; it makes Stiles want to cower away like a scolded child.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to panic everyone, I swear. I was just tired, and my phone was on silent-”

“Are you okay?” his dad interrupts him mid-sentence, his tone softening but still urgent.

“Yeah, dad, I’m fine.”

The man sighs gutturally with relief. “Good. You worried me there, kiddo. I thought something must be seriously wrong if Scott’s coming to me for help. I usually don’t get to hear if either of you are in trouble.”

And if that doesn’t feel like a fucking bullet through the heart.

“Dad, you know I like to deal with things on my own. I always have. It’s not that I keep things from you. I just don’t want to bug you with my shit when you’re busy with work and stuff. I promise, though, you would be the first to know if I was in any real danger.” That’s probably a lie. His dad will know it too, but thankfully he doesn’t call him out on it.

Stiles is more likely to go to Scott than to his dad for anything really drastic, but he wants to reassure him.

“Good to hear,” the man murmurs, and Stiles can tell he’s not entirely convinced. “But son, your issues aren’t shit. I’ll always listen to you; I’m here for you. Just call me. You’re the most important thing to me, Stiles. I know I don’t tell you that enough, but you are, and nothing in my life takes precedence over you, kid, even my job.”

Tears well in his eyes, fat droplets clinging to his lashes for dear life as he tilts his head to force them back inside his body. He knows his dad sees him as his whole world, even when they went through the rough patch after his mom died, but to hear him say it out loud means absolutely everything to him. It quite honestly breaks his heart just a little.

His dad isn’t one to wear his emotions on his sleeve. He’s a practical man, a simple one. He doesn’t say “I love you” a lot or give him endless amounts of hugs and kisses, but that’s just the kind of guy he is. Stiles isn’t bitter about it. The man does his best.

“I love you, dad,” he whispers, his voice wavering as he fails miserably to hold back the flow of tears.

“Love you too, kiddo.”

Stiles manages to stifle his almost-sobbing—not without great difficulty—so as not to worry his dad further. He takes a deep breath to steady himself; he should probably tell his dad his news, if only to distract them both from the current conversation.

“Hey, dad, guess what?” he sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve as he aims for something close to an excited chirp.

“What?”

“I, eh, might have a new job. A better one, I think. I have to go in tonight to talk about the ins and outs, but the jobs mine if I want it.”

“That’s great, son. What’s the job?”

For a split second, he thinks about lying and saying it’s just another gig in a coffee shop with better hours and pay. His mother was a singer, taught him everything she knew, and he doesn’t fail to notice his dad’s eyes turning glassy whenever he hears him play a tune.

While growing up, after his mother passed, his dad would often walk out of the room whenever Stiles started to sing. Even now, Stiles notices how he diverts the conversation if he’s ever talking too much about his studies in college. _‘Reminds me of Claudia,’_ he would say.

His dad has supported him in everything—paying for his own choice of college course proves that—but it no doubt still hurts for him.

Still, he might as well tell him the truth; he’ll find out eventually anyway. “It’s singing. In a club.”

There's a slight pause before he gets a reply. “Stiles, that’s fantastic. I’m so proud of you.” Stiles hears a few sniffs. “Your mother would be too.”

Well, there goes any thoughts of backing out. Even if Peter decides to lock him in the basement and slowly torture him, he can’t very well risk disappointing his dad—or his mom.

“Thanks, dad. I’m pretty stoked. You should come and see me on stage some time?” Stiles tries, knowing it’s too much to ask, but he wants to offer anyway.

“Sure thing, kiddo.” Stiles won’t hold out hope but maybe one day. “As soon as you’ve finished college, we’ll celebrate. You, me, Scott, Melissa, and anyone else you want. You’re still coming home for a few weeks when you finish, right?”

“Yeah, I should be. Even if it’s just for a little while before I figure out where I want to be. I’ll discuss it tonight with my boss, see if it’ll be alright for me to take a few weeks off,” Stiles explains. He doubts Peter will object, but he doesn’t want to risk seeming like he’s taking the piss before he’s even started.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Stiles. You’re incredibly talented, just like your mother, and they would be idiots not to keep you under lock and key.” _Ha, let’s hope not._ “But don’t stress yourself. If you can’t make it back, we can figure something out, just… as long as you're happy.”

“I think I will be,” Stiles says honestly, a smile creeping across his face.

“I’m glad to hear it, kiddo.”

At that moment, Stiles notices the time on his wall clock; doing a double-take, he startles slightly. “Er, I better run, dad, but I’ll speak to you tomorrow?” he mumbles distractedly, stumbling like a newborn fawn towards his bathroom, stripping himself clumsily out of his sleep pants along the way.

“Course,” his dad agrees, utterly undeterred by his son’s sudden need to leave. “Good luck, kid. I know you’ll be great.”

“Thanks, dad. Love you,” he ends the call in a rush, disconnecting the line before he gets an answer.

Stiles clocks his red blotchy cheeks in the bathroom mirror as he passes; he none too gently wipes his face clean of any residual tears he’d shed throughout the phone call. That’s when he remembers the final text he still has left to open. Not that he cares about what it says.

It’s from Frank. The man—if he can even be dubbed as one—is a class-A cunt and no doubt wants to, yet again, take advantage.

_Fucktard Frank: Your hours have changed, Stilinski. Saturdays only. 8 to 4. If you’ve got a problem, I don’t give a shit._

What a dick. No matter how many times he’s begged Frank to keep him on the original hours they agreed upon several years ago, he gets dismissed every time. He says he’s not made of money and that Stiles is lucky to still even have the job, that he should be grateful for the opportunity he’s been given.

Funny how this was only _after_ he’d declined the man's unwanted advances for the third time.

Stiles never argued, though, no matter how much he wanted to. He needed the job, even if it is shit. He never realized when he moved that it would be so difficult for a college student to find employment that would give him hours outside of his education. So, yes, he _had_ been grateful, but not to Frank.

Frank can go fuck himself with a rusty spoon.

_Stiles: Stick your job up your ass. I quit._

He presses send before he can even process what he typed. He had planned on going down to the shop today, or even tomorrow after his first shift at the club, and doing this face to face. He wanted to appear as civil as possible, but after that text, he’s done with the whole thing and wants as far away from that prick as soon as possible. 

At least this way, he doesn’t have to stand there while the greasy dickhead spouts abuse at him in a room full of staff and customers. Sure, he probably should’ve still been the bigger man and kept up the appearance of being agreeable but fuck it. Too late now.

Let’s just hope Peter isn’t counting on a reference.

Stiles glances again at the time, it’s now close to eleven, and he still needs to shower, eat, figure out what to wear, double-check his guitar is tuned, _and_ do some last-minute research.

He can do all that in six hours, surely?

~

Surprising absolutely no one, the shower takes _way_ longer than planned. The main reason being is Stiles’ filthy, sex-deprived brain decides to flood him with images of an incredibly gorgeous Alpha werewolf every time he touches his naked skin.

He can’t help it, okay? He’s been blessed—or cursed, depending on the time of day it decides to make itself known—with a very healthy libido and the imagination of a seasoned harlot to go along with it. Seeing Peter’s infuriatingly hot smirk flash insistently in his mind’s eye has him wrapping his hand around himself and thrusting into his fist until his knees threaten to buckle underneath him. The intensity of his orgasm has him crying out, panting heavily as he trembles with the aftershocks.

He can’t remember the last time he’s come so hard, but with a quick glance down, he realizes all it did was take the initial edge off, his cock still rock-hard and aching between his thighs. He whines pitifully, feeling much like a teenager again, hormones going haywire at the thought of anything even remotely sexual.

He’s still considered _young_ , so his refractory period is something to marvel at, but even with that, he doesn’t think he’s ever managed to go twice within such a short period without needing a break and going soft in-between. He could blame it on his severe lack of action in the last few months, but—reluctantly admitted—he knows the real culprit. 

Sexy werewolves be damned.

This may just prove to be a problem, what with werewolf senses and all. He can’t be having these kinds of thoughts about his frickin’ boss and constantly smelling of masturbation and arousal whenever the man even looks in his general direction. No matter how much he wants Peter to just bend him over that piano and fuck him until he-

_No. Just no._

That will never happen. It _can’t_ happen. Peter is obviously, even to a blind man, way out of Stiles’ league. There’s next to no chance he’d be interested in an inexperienced, anxiety-riddled college student when he could literally have anyone else. But that’s beside the point. Peter is to be his _boss_. He’s sure there are a shit ton of rules and regulations set in place to shun those kinds of relationships.

Even if there isn’t, Stiles knows it’s common sense not to fuck the guy in charge of your wages. That kind of thing can get messy real fast.

Thus, Stiles has to work on either completely erasing Mr. Sex-on-legs from his mind or get laid elsewhere in hopes that’ll be enough to reduce his desperation to a contained comfortable simmer.

Stiles stands under the sprays thinking of grandmas and dying kittens until he finally goes limp. He makes sure his sins have whirled down the drain before shutting off the water, stepping out from the cloud of heat to dry himself off. He takes extra care not to reawaken the beast, putting on a pair of clean boxer shorts as an additional barrier.

He decides to get something to eat before picking out his outfit; it’s almost a guarantee that he’ll spill something down himself and have to change if he doesn’t. Besides, he’s in his apartment; he can walk around half-naked if he wants to, no excuses needed.

He opens the refrigerator to much the same woeful sight he’s greeted with every time he opens it—mostly empty, apart from a jar of grape jelly, some crunchy peanut butter, and a sad-looking vanilla yogurt. Can yogurts look sad?

He’d done the grocery shopping a day before Scottie arrived a week ago. Even after all this time, though, he still managed to underestimate just how much a young werewolf can actually consume—three years with the knowledge and Scottie’s hearty appetite still shocks him. He hasn’t had the chance to restock since his best friend left yesterday morning, so taking another glance at the meager sight before him, he concludes that a peanut butter and jelly sandwich will have to do.

Not that he has much choice otherwise.

After practically inhaling his sandwich and casually—too casually—scanning through social media, basically getting sucked into the never-ending void of cat videos, it’s suddenly two-thirty. He still has to get changed and do some research before making his way to the club.

Flailing, he dumps his plate carelessly in the sink, wincing at the distinct clatter—an issue for future Stiles to deal with—and strides back to his bedroom. He plonks himself down unceremoniously in his desk chair, firing up his laptop, leg bouncing impatiently as it takes an age and a half to load.

~

Four o’clock arrives, and Stiles is now only slightly more in the know about werewolves. He used a few sites that Deaton suggested to him when Scott had first been turned. Sites he regretfully hasn’t had much of a chance to take more than a passing glance at, even with his avid thirst for knowledge.

They’re webpages written by _actual_ supernatural historians but are disguised as folklore or fairy-tale superstition sites for humans who enjoy a bit of make-believe.

He’s seriously kicking himself for not doing this earlier; he could’ve saved himself a whole night of stress if he’d scoured through these instead of doing a half-assed Google search on his phone. Most of the articles are really informative and exceptionally well written; he knows he could spend days just scrolling through them.

The only snag is there’s only really a handful of pages about werewolves; the rest are taken up with details on other supernatural creatures, some Stiles has never even heard of.

He realizes it’s now too late to dwell on his complete inexperience of the situation. He managed to store away a few facts and helpful anecdotes before he inevitably got distracted by how many teeth the average mermaid has.

First of all, they have _fangs_ , not human-like teeth as he initially assumed, but that’s entirely irrelevant.

He’s just going to have to wing it, much like he had that first Christmas he'd spent with Scottie all wolfed out and struggling with his control. He can use what little he took from that experience and just learn the rest along the way.

Another decision he’s made is not to mention to Peter—or any of the other wolves at the club—that he knows. He’s sincerely hoping Peter will do that for him tonight. If not, he’s sure he can keep it hush until it either slips out or they trust him enough to tell him. Stiles is excellent at keeping secrets, but he can also be a massive gob-shite when the mood takes him so, he’ll just have to see how long he can last before giving himself away. Especially in a room full of beings that can hear every lie and smell every emotion.

It’ll all be fine. He just has to act natural, and everything will work out just peachy.

Yeah, that would be a good plan if it was anyone other than Stiles. Acting natural isn’t exactly something he’s known for. To be honest, the word _natural_ isn’t typically in his vocabulary. 

Sighing, he wanders over to his closet, beginning the laborious task of trawling through his endless collection of black skinny jeans, plaid shirts, and graphic tees. He has to have something in here that’s at least a fraction smarter than his usual attire.

“Ah-ha,” he shouts triumphantly, pulling out a plain, burgundy button-up shirt from the deepest darkest depths of Narnia. He has no idea when he bought it or what the hell possessed him to purchase something so out of his usual style, but right now, he’s thanking the heavens that he had.

He not exactly sure if the only plain, smart shirt he owns being the same color as Peter’s furniture could be classed as incredibly ironic or not, but he doesn’t really have time to question it—the clock is ticking. Luckily it seems to be the only thing in his closet that’s actually ironed. Probably because he’s never worn it, that fact becoming evident as he rips away the label jagging him in the side of the neck.

He buttons himself up and smooths out the fabric. It fits like a glove. For the first time in probably forever, he’s wearing something that fits him. Something that seems to be clinging to his body in all the right places, showing off the little muscle he does have and making them look incredible—if he does say so himself.

Well shit, maybe he should buy these kinds of shirts more often.

He shakes his head to clear it; he only has an hour before he has to leave, now isn’t the time to be checking himself out. He grabs the smartest pair of black skinnies he owns and a pair of black converse. He doesn’t own any other type of shoe, but these ones appear to be the cleanest and plainest. He doesn’t think Peter would appreciate him waltzing in wearing his glittery, pride special-editions or his bright yellow Batman and Robin pair.

He won’t lie, though; he would quite like to see the look on the man's face if he did.

He wanders past his full-length mirror just to make sure he looks presentable. And yes, yes, he does. It brings a smile to his face that, for once, he actually thinks he looks pretty good. He rushes into the bathroom to brush his teeth, taking extra care not to drop any toothpaste on himself—because that would just be typical—before running his fingers through his hair to attempt some sort of messy but styled look.

By the time he’s done his usual amount of fussing about, checking everything is switched off, making sure all the windows are locked, and just generally wasting more time, it’s five-twenty.

He has to leave right now.

It takes twenty minutes to get to the club from his apartment, traffic depending, and he doesn’t want to show up on his first day dead on time or late. He’d like to be early, even if it’s just by ten minutes. If only to set up the pretense of him being a half-decent timekeeper.

He grabs his keys from beside his bed and hauls his bagged guitar over his shoulder. Peter never asked him to bring the instrument, but he wants to take it just in case. It’s his favorite, after all, and it gives him a wider variety of songs he can sing than if he just had the piano for choice. If Peter doesn’t want him to use it, he’ll just leave it in the Jeep.

He almost stumbles over his feet on the way out the door. He’s definitely the clumsiest person he knows, and it only gets worse the more pressed for time he is. He locks his door, double-checking the lock as he always does, before leaping down the stairs three at a time with all the grace of a baby gazelle.

Once at his Jeep, parked in her usual spot, he throws his guitar in the passenger seat, buckles up, and turns on the ignition.

This is it. He’s doing this, and nothing is going to stop him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where I'm from a weekend job would be enough to keep a University student afloat, but I know college fees are a lot more expensive in the US so, let's just pretend it all makes sense.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Stay tuned for the next chapter where we finally find out what kind of club Peter actually owns...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Stiles finally arrives at the club, it’s quarter to seven.
> 
> He’s so screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this as I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I live for Stiles and Peter interactions. 
> 
> What I will say though is I struggled more than usual with this chapter on sticking with the present tense, I can only apologize and hope it doesn't bother you too much.
> 
> Happy reading!

The plan to arrive early went straight down the drain as soon as he pulled out onto the highway. An overturned truck was blocking all but one lane, traffic going so slow it was basically stopped.

When Stiles finally arrives at the club, it’s quarter to seven.

He’s so screwed.

Of course, he hopes no one was seriously injured in the collision, but for fuck sake, why did it have to be today?

It isn’t even an exaggeration to say that he jumps out of his Jeep, scrambling gracelessly to his feet as he trips over himself in his haste. He barely takes the time to slam his door behind him, never mind locking it, before making his way to the club's front door.

As he advances on those—quite frankly intimidating—steel doors, he’s internally praying that Peter’s in a good mood and hasn’t already decided to set his guard-wolves on him for his tardiness. It may seem like he’s overacting, but a man dubbed the ‘Alpha of all Alphas’ Stiles can’t imagine landed that moniker by being overly forgiving.

Scott had said Peter was known for his ruthlessness, but maybe that’s just a wild rumor. Perhaps the Alpha is just too far involved in said rumor to be able to correct it? In reality, he could be a wonderful, bubbly, fluff-ball filled with rainbows and sunshine who has the lifelong ambition of bringing about world peace. Doubt it, though, and to be honest, Stiles has never been pegged as overly optimistic, so he was never going to believe that assumption for a second.

Before he can drown in his thought, the door begins creeping open, his fist raised in preparation for knocking.

“You’re late,” Boyd states, tone indifferent, as he lurks in the shadows. Stiles edges through the gap, standing to the side when he’s past the threshold. Boyd slams the door shut behind him, bolting the lock with a little more force than is strictly necessary.

“I know, and I’m so, so sorry. There was an accident on the-”

“Save your excuses for the boss,” Boyd interrupts him mid-flow. “I’m not interested.” And with that, the hulking bodyguard starts walking towards the end of the hallway—the same route they'd taken yesterday.

Once again, Boyd holds open the curtain, ushering Stiles through ahead of him. The club is still empty— _thank God_. Peter did say it wasn’t opening until eight, but Stiles thought there might’ve been at least a few more staff here preparing.

He's eternally grateful that there isn't. 

He lingers in much the same spot as he had yesterday, waiting on his instructions, but Boyd just thunders on past him, not even casting him a second glance. Stiles decides to follow like an obedient lapdog.

They head over to the right side of the room, towards the bar. It isn’t until they’re at the far end—closest to the stage—that Stiles notices the third red curtain. How many more secret hallways and doors are in this place?

This particular draping of fabric is a little more hidden than the one they’ve just walked through or the one on the left side of the room. It’s barriered off with a thick red rope and the words _No Entry_ written on the wall above.

Boyd unlatches the rope and once again proves the gentleman by pulling the curtain aside for Stiles to walk through. “Door at the end of the hallway. You’ll know the one. Knock _twice_ and wait until you’re called to enter, or the door is opened for you.” The man instructs as Stiles ducks past him into the unfamiliar hallway. Once he’s clear and without another word, the curtain is released, with Boyd disappearing from view.

Stiles sucks in a deep breath as he makes his way to the end of the corridor. This one isn’t as wide as the entrance hallway, but it has better lighting. There’s probably less need for a mysterious ambiance in the employees-only part of the club. There are also only three doors in here, unlike the eight Stiles had counted as he came through the front door. Two of the doors stand directly across from each other, close to the curtain, and on them in a white cursive font reads _Male Staffroom_ on one and _Female Staffroom_ on the other.

Stiles nods in acknowledgment and continues his walk.

The third door is situated directly at the end of the hallway, as Boyd had said. Stiles decides to pick up the pace so as not to dally any longer than necessary; he’s already forty-five minutes late; he doesn’t want to push his luck even further.

When he reaches the door at the end, he notices that it’s the only one he’s seen that isn’t following the same black wood theme.

This one is painted burgundy.

“My favorite color’s burgundy; what’s yours?” Stiles whispers to himself sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

The door, much like most of the others, has nothing on it. No sign, no white script written across it, no plaque. Nothing. It’s standing bare like the doors in the entrance hallway, but he guesses the splash of color is enough of an indication that this is the boss’s office. A subtle hint of uniqueness to show superiority. 

Stiles raps the door twice as Boyd had instructed—fingers flexing momentarily with the petty urge to knock again just for badness—waiting patiently for permission to enter or for the opening of the door.

His fidgety-ass thinks it's forever before he hears the tell-tale sound of footsteps tapping across wooden flooring. He straightens himself up, squares his shoulders, lifts his chin, and tries for an expression that could be seen as confident. He needs to stand his ground and prove that he isn’t unreliable despite being late on the very first day of the job.

His feeble attempt at false bravado crumbles as soon as the door opens.

Before him, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest—and God if that isn’t the sexiest pose—in a full three-piece suit, tie and all, is the subject of his earlier wankathon.

Lord have mercy on his beating heart; he’s going to need a lie-down after this.

“Good evening, Stiles,” Peter purrs, voice like sweet melted chocolate.

“Evening, Mr. Hale,” Stiles replies, his voice only squeaking slightly. Small mercies.

His confident stature depletes even further as he assumes the position of a submissive beta. Eyes to the floor, shoulders hunched. He would’ve offered his neck too, but he’s trying not to let on the fact he knows about werewolves, so he just goes halfway, hoping it'll be enough to placate the guy.

Peter holds up a hand in a ‘stop' gesture, “please, call me Peter.”

Stiles gazes up from the floor at that, promptly losing himself for a moment in the Alpha’s serene ocean blue eyes. “ _Peter_.”

That earns him a small smile, the man pushing off the doorframe with what looks like hardly any effort at all to stands up straight. “Come in,” Peter offers with an outstretched hand as he moves slightly to the side to allow Stiles entry. “Take a seat.”

He can feel the man’s eyes burning into the back of his head as he cautiously makes his way over to the chair in front of the large metal (titanium?) desk. Peter closes the door once Stiles is seated, wandering over to take up his position on the other side.

Stiles takes a quick gander around the room. It’s not huge but significant enough for its purpose. The desk is situated in the middle of the far back wall, perfectly adjacent to the door. To the left side is a stylish, four-seater leather couch—top marks if you can guess what color _._ It’s not the same as the ones in the club’s main room, this is a bit more expensive-looking and has a dark wooden coffee table in front of it, unlike the glass ones by the bar. There’s a tall standing lamp at one side of the couch and a full-length antique mirror on the other.

To the right side of the room is just a wall of shelves, every available space filled with books of varying widths and heights. Had this guy been less attractive, this little detail would’ve been enough to boost him up a few points on the scale. Stiles is a slut for books.

Overall, the room is plain yet beautifully decorated, much like the rest of the place, but that just makes it seem more elegant. Stiles can’t quite get his head around how a guy who advertises his job openings in the local newspaper is this modern with his interior designing.

When he’s finished his snooping, he returns his attention to Peter. The man is leaning back in his chair, legs spread apart, elbows on the armrest with his hands clasped in front of him, observing Stiles intensely. He looks sinfully ethereal. Divine and dangerous. Like Lucifer upon his flaming throne. There’s no mistaking he’s an Alpha. And hot damn is Stiles’ body trembling with the sheer power of that stare.

“I-It’s hot in here,” Stiles mumbles to himself, pulling at his collar as he gulps on nothing, his mouth suddenly as dry as a nun’s knickers.

Instead of commenting, Peter just reaches forward, picking up a remote from atop his desk before resuming his position in his chair. He presses down on a button at the top of the white device in his hand, setting it down again once he’s completed the action.

Stiles hears a beep right as a cold gust of air blows over him. He looks up to see a state of the art, high-tech air-con unit directly above Peter’s desk.

Werewolves run hot, so that seems convenient.

“Thanks,” he whispers under his breath. Peter just inclines his head.

The Alpha continues to stare at Stiles, seemingly refusing to fill the silence between them. It makes Stiles’ heart thud that little bit faster against his chest. His palms sweating profusely as his leg starts to bounce of its own accord. Is this his punishment for being late? To suffer in a silence that his ADHD-riddled body can’t handle. To be subjected to the penetrating gaze of a mobster-class Alpha werewolf. Is Peter expecting him to talk first?

Stiles decides it’s best to let the older man lead so as not to aggravate him further. But someone better talk soon, or Stiles is gonna scream, or worse, fill the emptiness with complete and utter bullshit.

“I’m sorry.”

_Fuck._

Peter looks taken aback by the apology. The same reaction Stiles would’ve expected had he just told the Alpha he’s pregnant. “Whatever for?” the man asks, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“For being late?” Stiles decides to just go ahead and address the elephant in the room.

“I hadn’t noticed.” Peter smiles, his features relaxing. He takes a casual glance at the watch on his wrist—a watch that looks like it’s worth more than Stiles’ entire life—and hums at what he sees. “But yes, you are quite correct. I said six o’clock, didn’t I?”

Stiles curses himself internally. If he hadn’t said anything, maybe Peter would’ve just let him away with it, but oh no, motor mouth McGee can’t fucking help himself. “Yes… yes, you did, and I’m really sorry. I know it doesn’t look good to be late on my first day, but I honestly have a really good reason, and I swear on everything I own that it will never happen again.” His words fall out like vomit, and looking back on this later, he’ll probably call himself pathetic. Seriously? Pitifully groveling for your lif- _job_ to an Alpha werewolf?

_Pathetic._

“Let’s hear it then.”

“Huh?”

“Your excuse,” Peter deadpans, waving a hand for him to continue.

“Oh.” Stiles takes a second to gather his thoughts. “Er, there was a truck overturned on the highway. Over _three_ frickin’ lanes, would you believe? Traffic was a nightmare. I left my apartment early enough that I should've been here ten minutes early, but luck was seriously not on my side and-” 

Peter cuts him off, “and here I’d hoped your tale would consist of being kidnapped by fairies, only to be released shortly after when you undoubtedly talked their ears off. Really, a car accident? You could’ve come up with something much more exciting than that, I’m sure.”

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes a few times. “Erm, so, you don’t believe me?” He’s beyond confused, teetering into the realm of utterly baffled.

Peter looks kind of disappointed. “It doesn’t matter if I believe you or not, Stiles. I don’t care. I just thought you’d have used a bit more imagination.”

Stiles thinks about it for a moment before the cogs in his mind finally align. “You- are you teasing me?”

“Yes, Stiles,” Peter admits, words drawn out as if talking to a slow child. Which, _rude_. “I knew about the accident. I _do_ read the news. I’d guessed when you didn’t show up on time that something had to have happened. You don’t strike me as purposefully tardy, sweet one.”

There he goes again with the ridiculously heart-melting pet names. This guy is going to kill him.

Figuratively, though, not literally, if you please. 

“So, I’m not going to be punished?” he asks, still unsure of the situation but feeling a little guilty for assuming the worst. He shouldn’t judge everyone on the standards of Fucktard Frank or the depictions of the bloodthirsty werewolves in storybooks, for that matter.

The flicker of guilt in his gut rises tenfold when he sees Peter stiffen— _ha_ —at his words. “No, you’re not going to be punished. Just try not to be late again. In the event of something getting in the way of you being here on time in the future, then call ahead to let me know. Is that clear?”

“As crystal,” Stiles agrees quickly, bobbing his head like a nodding dog. He feels the tension seeping from his body now that he knows Peter isn’t mad at him.

“Good,” Peter nods back, straightening in his seat, pulling himself further toward the desk so he can lean his elbows against the metallic surface. “Now, to business.” The man clasps his hands together in front of him, resting his chin against his knuckles. Stiles sits up straighter in his seat, waiting patiently for him to continue. “So, Stiles, what exactly do you know about this place?” Peter spans one hand out to indicate their surroundings before returning it back under his chin.

“Er, I regret to say that I know next to nothing. I couldn’t find anything on Google, and I don’t really know the area well enough to have heard of it before,” he answers honestly, opting to play it safe if only to keep his heartbeat steady.

He’d quickly researched the name of the place before leaving his apartment, but it suspiciously never came up under any of his searches. Even when he put the address in Google maps, all it showed was the area _before_ the club had been built. Basically, just a vast expanse of trees and grass.

Peter hums. “We’ve not long since opened the doors; today marks the first day of our second month. It isn’t surprising that we haven’t yet garnered any sort of reputation on the internet. Be it good or bad. However, due to the nature of the business we do here, I would prefer to keep it that way. To stay under the radar from the general public, as far as reasonably practicable, would be in the best interest of everyone involved.”

_Here goes._

“What do you mean by business?” Stiles braces himself for Peter's reply, readying himself for the admission about the supernatural. He practiced his surprised face in the car ride here; he thinks he has it down to a fine art.

Peter pauses for a moment, probably debating on whether or not to trust Stiles with the knowledge. “Howling at the Moon is San Francisco’s first and _only_ , exclusive BDSM club.”

Stiles whole body stiffens up— _ha—_ his mouth gaping but no words leaving his lips.

That’s not what he was expecting. Not at all.

“C-come again?” Stiles manages to stutter after a few long seconds of silence. His face must be an absolute picture. He’s surprised his jaw hasn’t hit the floor.

Peter smirks at his reaction but doesn’t repeat his statement; instead, he elaborates. “This place is not freely open to the public; you must apply through our rigorous vetting process, pay a very hefty fee, _and_ be given a members card before walking through the front door. Most of my patrons are either dominants or submissives, but a few are neither. I’ve built a judgment-free space for those who wish to come and experiment with, participate in, perform, or just watch acts of BDSM—or just _any_ kinks which are typically viewed as taboo. As long as it’s done safely and is fully consensual, then it can be practiced under this roof,” Peter reels out the words as if he’s just partaking in casual everyday conversation.

Nothing to see here; we’re just talking about the weather.

A distracted, “uh-huh,” is all Stiles can contribute as he processes everything. He wholeheartedly believed the things Peter wanted to _discuss_ with him were werewolf-related. Not once did it ever cross his mind that he’d be working in a VIP sex club. It feels as if his brain is short-circuiting.

“Do you have any questions? Any problems?”

That’s a loaded question. “Hm, maybe just one?”

“Go ahead.”

“I won’t have to... you know, like do any of that stuff, would I? I’m just here to sing, right?” he asks cautiously, while he doesn’t believe Peter would force him into anything he’s uncomfortable with, he still needs the confirmation.

Peter smirks that infuriatingly devilish smirk before answering, “no, sweetheart. You’re only hired to get up on stage and sing for the guests who decide not to occupy one of the rooms.” Ah, so that’s what all those rooms are for.“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, nor will you be cast out for refusing anything offered. Consent is _very_ important to me. No one will touch you,” Peter pauses briefly, “unless, of course, you explicitly ask them too.”

Did Stiles just imagine Peter winking at him?

He must have.

“Good.” Stiles realizes belatedly that he may have said that a little too quickly. It sounds almost like he’s disgusted with the very idea of asking for any of this. “I mean, it’s not that any of this bothers me; it _totally_ doesn’t. I’ve watched some kinky shit in porn, so like, no judgment here. I just don’t think all that pain and stuff is really my thing.”

Did he seriously just tell his boss about his porn habits?

Fuck his life.

Peter lets out a breathy chuckle that has no right to be so attractive. “Do you often let things come out of your mouth without much thought beforehand?”

Stiles looks back up from where he’d let his eyes drop to the floor, embarrassed by his rambling. He shrugs, exhaling a pained laugh. “It’s my superpower.”

Peter gives him a look that's as close to fond as Stiles can imagine on him. “It’s refreshing. I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by people who just tiptoe around me. Afraid to say anything in case it’s the wrong thing. You’re not like that, though, are you, Stiles?”

“I mean, I _do_ try to say the right things, but my dad says I have no filter. It gets worse when I’m nervous. It just all spews out before I can stop it.”

“I make you nervous?” Peter tilts his head, and Stiles can’t help but liken the action to that of a puppy dog. He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from cooing.

_Back to the question._

He can’t lie to the man. Peter is a human—well, human-ish—lie detector. Why he even asked that question seems excessively cruel. Surely, he can smell the nerves pouring off him like the pungent scent from fresh shit.

Hell, even Stiles can smell it.

“I don’t think it’s nerves, per se,” he finally answers, failing miserably to act anything other than a massive ball of pure nervousness. “I just wasn’t expecting this to be a sex club for really rich people. I mean, I knew you’d have to have some amount of cash to come here, but the whole whips and chains thing didn’t really occur to me as a possibility. I had guessed a strip club, but there’s no poles. So, maybe some sort-of mobster’s hideout?”

Peter laughs again, a hearty thing that vibrates off the walls—it sends a very pleasant shiver down Stiles’ spine. “You really should watch some better porn if you think BDSM consists of only whips and chains.”

Yes, he’s planning on it as soon as he gets home,thank you very much.

He’s _definitely_ going to need a three-day research bender for this one.

“Sorry.” He's not sure what he’s apologizing for, but it feels right; he’s being kinda ignorant, to be honest, even if it isn’t exactly his fault. “So," he abruptly changes the subject, "is there anything else I need to know before I start?” That you’re a werewolf, perhaps? Or an Alpha werewolf, to be precise. And by _exclusive,_ you mean werewolf-only?

“Not at present.”

_Damn it._

Peter passes him a document across the table. “Here’s your contract. You’ll see all the important things listed here: hours of work, rate of pay, all that good stuff. When you’ve read it through, and you agree, sign and date the bottom of the last page, and we can get you into your uniform.”

 _“Uniform_?” What’s wrong with what he’s wearing?

Peter nods. “As stunning as you look in that shirt, sweetheart, you do kind of clash with the décor. I want you to stand out, not blend in.”

Even without werewolf hearing, Stiles knows his traitorous heart skipped over Peter’s compliment. He coughs to try deflect that he wants nothing more than for the Alpha to repeat those words, maybe growl them into his ear as he pounds him into the desk. “Whatever you say, sir.”

Peter’s whole body tenses visibly, his eyes darkening as his jaw clenches. Stiles doesn’t think he’s imagining the sound of the man’s teeth grinding together. “Unless you wish to be signing a very different contract for me, Stiles, I would seriously refrain from calling me _sir_ if I were you.”

Stiles gulps audibly, a tremor ricocheting through his body, his cheeks flaming hotter than the pits of hell. He watches Peter’s eyes track the movement in his throat; pupils blow black with what looks terrifyingly close to hunger.

Not that Stiles isn’t interested in dwelling on the implications of what Peter has just said, ’cause Lord knows he wants Peter to elaborate, but he just doesn’t think he could cope with anymore right now. He’ll no doubt kick himself all the way home for denying his curiosity for once, but something in the back of his mind is telling him to just leave it be.

For now, at least.

He nods his head to Peter in acknowledgment, receiving the same in return before he directs his attention to reading through the contract, if only as a distraction rather than actually taking anything in.

That is until he scans over the rates of pay section.

“Sixty-five dollars an hour?” he squawks, feeling only slightly bad when the wolf startles at his sudden volume change. “Are you kidding me?”

Peter looks up from where he’d busied himself with some paperwork on his desk. “Is that... not enough?” the man asks, clearly unsure of what's caused Stiles’ outburst.

“Not enough? What? Dude, that’s like... holy shit, I can’t even-”

“What exactly is the problem?” Peter lets go of the sheet of paper he’d been working on and leans back in his chair, assessing Stiles with a furrowed brow.

“Oh, there’s no problem. No problem at all,” Stiles assures the man, struggling to do anything but gape at the page, utterly gobsmacked. “Christ, I’d do the frickin’ fandango on the roof in a baby pink tutu for that kind of money.”

“Your father was right,” Peter says with a small amused curl of his lips.

“Huh?”

“No filter.”

“Shit, sorry,” Stiles apologizes, running his fingers through his hair. “I just- I’ve come from a job that was paying absolute peanuts. It probably would’ve been liveable on had my hours been anywhere near enough, but they weren’t, so this… this is just a shock. I just didn’t expect it. I’m sorry.” Stiles takes in a deep breath to calm his rapidly beating heart, but it doesn’t work right away.

His eyes trace the paper over and over as if to reassure himself the numbers aren’t going to magically disappear, and every time they don’t, his shock and gratitude rise again momentarily. 

“No need to apologize, sweetheart,” Peter soothes him. “I can imagine minimum wage, and weekend-only work to a college student is pretty unmanageable.”

Stiles’ head snaps up. “How’d you know I was at college?”

Peter doesn’t answer, just rotates the monitor of his desktop computer towards Stiles. On it is his Facebook page, open on his timeline at a picture of him and Scottie on their last night together, bro-hugging outside their regular watering hole.

“You looked me up on social media?”

Peter smirks as he twists the screen back to its original position. “Of course, I did. I wanted to know a bit more about you. Social media is the best way to get to know your employees, the _real_ them. You don’t often get to see their true personalities during interviews.” Peter’s grin turns more amused then. “I have to say; you’ve proved to be the exception to that rule.”

Stiles laughs nervously, trailing his hand across the back of his neck, grimacing slightly at the sweat accumulating there. “You looked through my Facebook, and you still want to hire me?”

He curses himself internally for being one of those people who posts absolutely everything. The good, the bad, and the ugly. The _very_ ugly _._

“Yes, I do,” Peter affirms sincerely. “I just wanted to make sure you’d fit in here. Besides, it was also how I determined your hours. I don’t want to get in the way of your education, but I still want to provide you with the best opportunity that I can.” Peter points to the page Stiles has open on the contract. “These will need to be renegotiated to more when you finish college. Provided all goes well for both parties. But for now, I hope these hours are achievable alongside your studying.” He looks deep into Stiles’ eyes, demanding his full attention. “Let me know at _any_ time if you need them reduced or if you feel comfortable with them being increased. I’m happy to work with your schedule.”

Stiles can’t hold back the blinding smile that splits his face in half. He’d probably have cried too if he was alone. Big fat, disgusting tears of pure, unadulterated joy. His eyes are undoubtedly glistening in the light, giving away his current state of emotion, but he doesn’t have the capacity to care right now.

On the verge of tears, he tries his best to keep his voice level, words leaving him only a little louder than a whisper. “Thank you, Peter. You have no idea what this means to me.”

Peter smiles again, the softest one yet. “I think I do, sweet one.”

Stiles counters Peter’s expression with something just as gentle before finishing his reading quickly and signing the dotted line.

His breakdown yesterday is entirely forgotten. He’ll make this work, even if it’s the last thing he does. An opportunity this perfect will most likely never present itself to him again; he couldn’t, even with all his willpower, squander that. He’ll just deal with the whole supernatural thing if and when the topic arises, but until then, he’s going to revel in his lifelong dream becoming a reality.

His mother would be so proud of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small disclaimer (kind of): I know nothing about the rates of pay etc. in San Francisco. The hourly rate that Peter has given Stiles here is based on a random website I came across, as everyone told me something different, so I just averaged it out. I wanted a number that got an 'OMG WOW' reaction, and I hope I have achieved that, but if not, let me know, and I'll change it. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and as always, if you think I have missed something in tags or warnings, please let me know!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter will have this beautiful young man eating out the palm of his hand in no time. He’s sure of it. And right now, he can’t remember the last time he’s wanted anything more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another Peter Hale POV. This is basically what Peter was doing before Stiles turned up at the club, in case that isn't clear.
> 
> I will say—if you haven't already guessed—I do like to drop a hint here and there without giving full explanations straight away, I'm asking you to just hang tight. I'll try my best not to leave anything unanswered. I have a plan, I'm gonna stick to it. Maybe. Just trust me. 
> 
> This whole fic is being edited with Grammarly, but, all mistakes that still linger, are mine. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Peter barely slept a wink, his wolf restless with the need to hunt down his mate and claim him. Most of the night he spent pacing, far too gone in his thoughts to manage anything productive. It wouldn’t have hurt to actually get on with some paperwork or even go over the notifications from his sources regarding a certain geriatric hunter, but it just wasn’t happening. He was too busy stopping himself from chasing down the young man with the intention of mounting him like a beast in heat to worry about politics. Or, more specifically, _revenge_.

After several long, drawn-out hours, his wolf had tired his body out enough to allow him the luxury of laying down on the bed. Not that he was particularly relaxed, but it was a compromise, at least. The feeling of plush Egyptian cotton beneath his naked skin gave him _some_ resemblance of comfort, but it was only temporary.

Visions of sweet honey eyes, satin-soft skin, and deliciously plump lips swarmed his mind, continuously shattering his momentary peace. He’d felt like a teenager again, desperately rutting into his hand repeatedly until the wee hours of the morning. The promise of a beautifully willing body underneath all that plaid kept his imagination running wild all through the night.

He lost count of how many times he had to get up to clean himself. In the end, he just gave it up as a bad job and decided to deal with his mess tomorrow.

Well, tomorrow is now—eleven in the morning, to be precise—and contrary to his earlier plan, he still has no intention, nor any motivation, to move to the shower. He knows he needs to, Gods above does he need to feel that scolding-hot water burn away every single dried-up drop of evidence from the evening’s activities, but he just can’t be bothered.

That, and his cock seems to have other ideas.

Peter sighs, exasperated, as his hand once again moves to relieve the throbbing ache. He’s still slick with lube and come from the last time, his hand gliding gently up and down his length without resistance. Swiping his thumb across the tip, he shivers at the spark of pleasure shooting straight to his toes. He lets his head sink into the soft pillows beneath him, his eyes fluttering closed.

The image that infiltrates his mind is of Stiles kneeling before him, wrists tied behind his back, taught red rope a beautifully stark contrast against his alabaster skin. The boy’s mouth hangs open, wide in anticipation for whatever Peter is willing to give him. He’ll take anything his sir deems him worthy of receiving.

He’ll beg for it.

Peter groans at the delicious picture he’s conjured up, allowing himself the indulgence of being loud. No one is around to hear him. He speeds up his movements, stripping his cock with vigor as he imagines Stiles asking obediently for what he wants.

 _‘I want to taste you, sir,’_ the mirage mewls sweetly, _‘please let me taste you.’_

Peter could never deny such a sweet request. He cups his hand around the back of his mate’s neck, holding him steady, rubbing his thumb across his jaw as he teases his mouth with the leaking head. Stiles’ tongue darts out expectantly, greedily licking up the salty trail smeared across his lips. The boy’s enthusiasm elicits a sense of pride in Peter’s chest, his wolf rumbling low in satisfaction.

Stiles lets out a breathy whine when Peter pulls himself just out of reach. _‘Please, sir, let me make you feel good. I need it. Please.’_

Content with his mate's begging, he thrusts his cock deep into Stiles’ throat, relishing in the muscles clenching around the tip as he chokes on it. He’s a good boy, accepting everything gratefully, swallowing around him, desperately trying to work him deeper. He moans wantonly as Peter grabs handfuls of his tousled locks, leverage for fucking his mouth in abandon, a carnal need to _possess_ and _claim_ boiling through his veins.

Stiles takes it all, his tongue working furiously as he makes the most delicious noises, lewd and wet. Utterly obscene. Filling the room in its entirety and Peter can’t help growling out words of praise to the beautiful fantasy. “So perfect for me. Taking every inch I give you. My good boy.”

The phantom smell of lust wafts from the young man in his mind, overwhelming Peter’s senses, enveloping him tightly as he uses Stiles’ sinful mouth for his pleasure, each buck of his hips growing more and more desperate as a familiar tightness grows in his belly.

With Peter’s permission, Stiles comes just like that. Tied up and untouched. Body quivering with the intensity, falling over the edge with nothing but cooing words and the knowledge that he’s pleasing his sir. Peter allows him one small mercy, pulling out so his boy can breathe through his orgasm, so he can pant out Peter’s name when his mind forgets everything but the white-hot pleasure.

He looks up at Peter through his long, lush eyelashes, nothing but pure love and contentment radiating from him. His voice rough, his throat fucked raw, as he encourages Peter to paint his face with his seed, _‘please, sir, come for me. Mark me. Make me yours.’_

Peter howls his mate’s name as he comes, his orgasm ripping through him quicker and harder than he thought possible, especially after how often he’s already done this in the last however many hours. His body trembles with the aftershocks, his hand working himself to over-stimulation, milking every last drop from his now spent cock.

Peter breathes a sigh of relief when he finally goes limp, his wolf satiated at long last, or perhaps it’s finally just worn itself out. No doubt he would've chafed had this gone on any longer.

His back is also beginning to vex him, craving the moisture it's been denied since he came home last night, but he doesn't let his mind linger on that, preferring to lay there without coherent thought for a few more moments to bask in the afterglow, all visions of flushed mole-dotted skin floating away with his release.

Eventually, he forces his muscles to work for him, wincing slightly as he stands on shaky legs to make his way to his en-suite lest he risks becoming one with the furniture. Never will he admit to the way he stumbles into the shower, his body weary from exhaustion. He may be a werewolf, but he’s gracing the fine line of forty, and a night such as the last has drained every ounce of energy from deep in his bones.

He turns on the water, a pleased hum escaping his lips as the powerful, burning waterfall assaults his skin. His fatigue slowly diminishes, swirling down the drain along with the proof of his depravity. He washes meticulously; the last thing he wants is his betas being privy to his solo activities. Erica is exceptionally nosey, incredibly intuitive, too; she would think nothing of questioning her Alpha about who exactly rules his fantasies to the point of smelling like a prepubescent boy’s bedroom.

Once he’s satisfied that his scent is saturated enough, he steps out of the warmth, hissing at the sudden change in temperature on this side of the glass. He dries himself leisurely, knowing he has plenty of time before his presence will be expected at the club. Not that he’s in a position to actually be late, he’s the boss after all. It’s up to him when he opens the doors, if at all, but today is the day he welcomes one more member to his team—maybe even his pack—so he most definitely has to show face.

His cock gives a valiant twitch at the idea of Stiles joining their ranks, but Peter ignores it. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to the club early to make sure everything is prepared, that _he_ is prepared. 

Wandering back to his bedroom, he opens up his extensive walk-in closet and begins picking out his day’s attire. Everything he owns fits him perfectly, tailored to such a high standard that every stitch of fabric shows off all his best qualities—not that he has many bad ones. He decides on a deep grey three-piece suit paired with a light blue dress shirt, dark brown tie, and a pair of tan leather brogues.

With the way Stiles nearly had an aneurysm the first day they met—when Peter had been more casually dressed than he’s usually seen—his soul is going to leave his body at the sight of him today.

To Peter, his day is considered rather droll unless someone falls over themselves for his attention. He’s a narcissist; he won’t apologize for it.

~

A good few hours later, and he’s ready. Dressed up to the nines, hair perfectly styled, beard neatly trimmed, and a delicate dash of aftershave across his pulse points. He picks up his favorite Rolex from his collection and wraps it around his left wrist.

Peter’s a rich man—a disgustingly rich man—which is just as well considering his very expensive taste. His sister used to say that he wouldn’t have suited being anything less than a King in his own lifetime. He’d be inclined to agree. What can he say? He’s walked through fire to get where he is today—been to hell and back, most would deduce. Every dollar he has, he’s gotten off his own back, maybe not in the most moral of ways, but his hands have still been dirtied all the same. So, why not flaunt his wealth? Why not spend it on material things? After all, you can’t take it with you when you get buried six feet under.

He would know.

Before his mind threatens to wander down that particularly dark path, he picks up his car keys, making his way out of his apartment. It’s only one in the afternoon, but he has a few things to go over before Stiles’ arrival.

The car ride to the club from his penthouse apartment is spent in a daze. The journey isn’t far, having made sure when he moved here that the distance was kept as short as possible in case of emergency, but it’s still long enough that he can let his mind wander into a state of sub-consciousness. He could make this journey blindfolded, what with his supernatural senses and the fact he’s driven it upwards of twice a day for the last few months, so it feels like no time at all before he’s pulling into the familiar parking lot behind the club.

It doesn’t take long before the peace he's experiencing is shattered. 

Much to his intense dismay, Erica greets him before he even has the chance to close the door to his Cobra. “Afternoon, boss,” she chirps with a tone that's entirely too intrusive for Peter's taste as she makes a show of sniffing the air around him.

“Erica,” Peter rumbles as much a greeting as it is a warning.

The girl grins wickedly, her eyes lighting up with mirth at Peter’s reluctance to stop for a chat. Not that he usually does, but today he’s even more inclined to avoid making idle conversation with his beta, knowing full well what exactly the conversation will entail.

He walks past her, making his way through the club’s backdoors, but stops short as she begins speaking again, obviously not getting the memo. “Boyd will be in later; I let him sleep-in since he was here late last night.” She follows him closely as he continues his journey through the club, making a bee-line for his office.

Peter’s not a coward. He’d skin anyone alive who thought otherwise. He just desires some privacy so he can get on with what he needs to do. He’s definitely not running to his office so he can recluse himself in an attempt to avoid Erica.

No way.

“And what exactly is the reason you’re here so early?” he throws casually over his shoulder. “Usually, I don’t expect either of you 'til four,”

“Call it... intuition.”

His brow furrows in confusion. “Pardon?”

“I knew you’d be coming in early, what with our expanding ranks and all that.” Peter can sense her nonchalant shrug, but he can also hear the smirk in her voice. “So, being your bodyguard, I thought it prudent to come in and keep you safe.” 

He huffs out a laugh. “I’m an Alpha werewolf, my dear; I think I can keep myself safe. You and Boyd are here as strength in numbers when the place is in full swing, not when the place is empty. I'm quite capable of handling any issues on my own.” He pauses, turning to point accusingly at her. “You just wanted to be nosy.”

“Pretty much,” she admits with a gleeful show of teeth.

A frustrated groan escapes his throat. “You really do test my patience, Miss Reyes.”

“Oh, come on, boss man, you love me really.” She nudges him playfully with her elbow; having caught up, she’s now walking with him side by side down the hallway.

“I do nothing of the sort.” He keeps his expression flat, trying to maintain some level of superiority through this frankly irritating conversation.

“Not sure if you've forgotten in your old age, but I am, in fact, a werewolf; I can hear when you lie.”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh as he reaches his office door, knocking his head against the wood, counting to ten before turning around. A polite but fake smile spreads across his face. “Well, it’s a good job that I do because if I weren’t, at the very least, _fond_ of you, you would've been gone a long time ago.” There’s no heat behind the words. This is sort of a ritual for them. Erica snoops around in his business, he gets annoyed, but it’s all just for show.

The banter he and Erica share daily is often the highlight of his day, not that he’d ever tell her that—even though she probably already knows. She can handle him in all of his states, can push back with sark and light-hearted insults, and she doesn’t stand for any of his shit. She’s strong-willed and stubborn. Independent and loyal. Fiery and a force to be reckoned with. Pretty much just a female version of himself, which could be why he likes her so much.

Again, not that he’d admit that out loud. Her ego is big enough. 

“I’ve known you how many years now?” she asks rhetorically, smirking wolfishly. “And it still amazes me the amount of bullshit that comes out of your mouth. Just admit it, I’m amazing, and you would be completely lost without my awesomeness gracing your presence.” She flutters her long, spidery eyelashes at him, and he can’t help rolling his eyes back at her.

“Don’t push it,” he chuckles, shaking his head in exasperation.

Erica just widens her grin, knowing full well that's as much an admittance as she’s ever going to get. “It’s still a few hours ‘til your boy-wonder gets here, so-”

“Let me just stop you there,” Peter interrupts, “he’s not _my_ anything.”

Erica gapes like he’s talking a foreign language. “Not yet, maybe. But, we both saw the way you looked at him.”

Peter sighs yet again; he’s going to have no breath left in his lungs at this rate. He's not even sure why he’s still dignifying her with answers at this point. “Like how exactly?”

“It was the same way Boyd looked at me when we first met.”

“Erica, I have a lot of paperwork to do. Can you just… I don’t know, make yourself busy? Or go home and come back later? I’m sure Boyd would just _love_ to have your company for a few more hours,” he tries to divert the topic away from Stiles, but with Erica, that’s never going to happen.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, but I’ve found something much more interesting to do at present,” she purrs.

“What? Like, pester me?”

“Yup,” she pops the _p,_ and if that doesn’t just grind on his nerves.

He points his finger at her, eyes hard and unrelenting, “don’t make me use my Alpha voice,” he threatens as if scolding a disobedient child.

Unsurprisingly he gets an amused cackle for his efforts. “You wouldn’t dare.”

They stare at each other for a long moment before Peter’s shoulders slump in defeat, hand dropping back to his side. “Fine,” he grits out through clenched teeth while she just grins triumphantly. “Yes, he may eventually be _mine_ , but at the moment, he’s not. So, can we just leave it be?”

“So, you want him?”

Peter closes his eyes and prays to the Gods to give him strength. “Yes.”

“He’s your mate?”

“Yes.”

“Ah-ha, I knew it,” she hollers, jumping up and down, clapping her hands in excitement like a child who’s just been told they're going to Disney World.

“Top marks to you, Miss Reyes,” he drawls sarcastically, now well and truly done with this conversation. “Now, can you please just-”

“When are you gonna tell him?”

Peter rubs his face with his hand; he’s really regretting not staying in bed. “I’m not.”

Erica jerks back as if slapped and honest to the Gods starts pouting. “What? So, you’re just going to pretend like nothing’s-”

“That would be the plan, yes.” Peter gives back a little smirk of his own at watching Erica’s expression go through several different emotions at once.

Finally, she settles on something close to resentment. “You’re an asshole; you know that?”

“Why, thank you.” He puts his hand to his chest, nodding appreciatively; knowing just how much his particular brand of sarcasm pisses her off, he relishes it.

“Wasn’t a compliment,” she mumbles, glaring daggers at him. She looks as if she’s one comment away from throwing a temper tantrum.

Mother Moon above, grant him peace. 

“Look, in case you’ve forgotten, he’s human. All of this isn’t going to be easy for him to understand like it would be for another wolf, so yes, I’m going to ignore it for now. I’m going to let it fall into place on its own terms. I _may_ help things along eventually…” He holds up a hand as Erica tries to interrupt. “But for now, we’re just going to keep this all hush and let him come to me. Is that understood?”

“But-”

“Is. That. Understood?” Peter doesn’t use his Alpha command, nor does he flash his eyes, but his tone brooks no further argument.

“Yes,” she hisses reluctantly as if Peter tortured the affirmation out of her.

“Good, now since I've sated your curiosity, you can leave me in peace. I'll be in my office if you need me, but I don’t expect to be disturbed for anything less than life or death. You’re welcome to go home and come back later if you wish but if not, _be useful_.”

With that, he closes the door; Erica no doubt sputtering out something about “always being useful”, but he’s no longer listening. Instead, he makes his way over to his desk, his body sagging into his chair as all the tension in his bones seems to leave him at once.

Erica means well, and while she’s correct in her assessment of him being rather fond of her—a familial love he has for all his betas—she can be the most infuriating person he’s ever met. But he wouldn’t have her any other way.

In truth, he wouldn’t have any of his pack any other way.

~

With all his paperwork finished, Stiles’ contract printed off, and his emails answered, all Peter has to do now is wait.

What was that he said about being a patient man?

It’s getting close to six o’clock, and there’s still no sign of the boy. Peter had expected him to arrive early; he just seems that type—rather be early than dead on time—but as the clock gets closer and closer to six, he’s beginning to wonder if something's wrong.

Has Stiles figured out what the club is and decided he doesn’t want the job? Or has something happened to him between the time he left here last night to now?

Peter has a lot of enemies, some in particular who would just love to get their hands on some leverage against him. But that’s a ridiculous thought. Unless someone had been camped outside the door, spying, then there’s no chance anyone would’ve known Stiles was even here. He hasn’t even told the rest of his pack yet. He trusts Boyd and Erica with his life, and between the three of them, they would’ve picked up any familiar or unfamiliar scents in the area. 

There has to be another reason. Stiles was more than eager to take the job, so it wouldn’t be that.

 _Oh, Gods._ What if he’s had an accident?

Peter can feel himself pale at the idea. His wolf snarling at the possibility of his mate being hurt. Or worse-

 _No._ He can’t think like that, can’t always assume the worst possible scenario.

Fuck, too late for that now. His body begins vibrating, his eyes sparking between their natural blue and supernatural red. His claws, no longer human, digging into the underside of the chair’s arms.

His wolf is about to leap into action when a knock at the door startles him out of his thoughts. Peter coughs to clear his voice of any evidence of panic, managing to reel himself back from his partial shift. “Come in,” he bellows across the room, making sure he’s heard over the soundproofing.

It’s Boyd who opens the door—he must’ve arrived at the club earlier in the day while Peter was busy. “Hey boss, you alright?” the beta asks curiously.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Peter retorts a little more harshly than intended, but Boyd doesn’t seem deterred.

“We can feel your tension from all the way at the bar,” Boyd admits, his expression as stoic as always, but the concern is there if you know what to look for.

Peter can’t lie to him, nor can he seem to keep a rein on his instincts at the moment. “Where is he?” He'll later deny the way his words come out more of a growl than a polite question, but at present, he’s too close to slipping out of control to give it a second thought. 

Boyd gazes at him for a moment, studying him. After a few long seconds, he takes a deep breath through his nose and enters the office without being instructed, closing the door behind him. He’s better at privacy than Erica. More aware of his surroundings when it comes to sensitive conversations.

“I have no idea, boss. Maybe he got held up?” the man answers calmly, obviously choosing to ignore the way Peter snarled at him.

“Or he’s dead,” Peter snaps back quickly, the words tasting like poison in his mouth.

“Woah there. I’m sure he won’t be dead, Alpha.” Boyd holds up his hands in mock surrender when Peter just glares at him. The man huffs, but there’s a fond smile on his lips. “What part of the city is he coming from? I heard on the radio earlier there was a major hold-up somewhere. I didn’t really pay attention to the location details, but maybe he’s just stuck in traffic?”

“A _hold-up_?” Peter parrots, ears perking up, his fangs no longer itching to extend as he mulls over the rational suggestion.

“Yeah, overturned truck or something. No one hurt, I believe, but it was causing delays,” Boyd adds with a shrug, keeping his tone light to placate his agitated Alpha. 

Peter swivels on his chair to face his computer, typing furiously. Within a second, he has a page open on current traffic reports between Stiles’ university and the club. Since he doesn’t know Stiles’ exact address yet—the university records didn’t display that information without needing further hacking—he guesses he’ll be staying in the general vicinity of the school. Hence why it’s quick work to determine which roads he’ll likely be taking to get here.

And yes, Boyd appears to be correct.

Peter grits his teeth, refusing to let his embarrassment show for jumping to conclusions. “He’s stuck in traffic,” he murmurs matter-of-factly, letting the tension visibly seep out of him. His wolf relaxes, now no longer in danger of ripping everything to shreds.

“See, no need to worry.”

Peter snorts. “I wasn’t worrying,” he lies through his teeth, “just gentle concern for my future employee is all.” He doesn’t know who he’s trying to fool, himself or his beta, but he still attempts with every bullshit trick he knows to play it off as nothing of importance.

He’s too stubborn to backtrack now.

“Uh-huh.”

Boyd never pries into Peter’s business, unlike Erica, but he always knows what’s going on. He just chooses not to question, or perhaps knows better than to challenge him—again, unlike Erica—unless completely necessary.

Peter clears his throat, straightening himself up in his chair, taking back at least a modicum of his dignity. “Thank you, Boyd. That will be all,” he dismisses the man, fiddling with a few stray pieces of paper on his desk to appear unaffected.

The man exits the room with a nod and the ghost of an infuriating grin on his face, leaving Peter feeling a lot calmer than he cares to admit he’d been moments ago but maybe ever so slightly ashamed of his behavior.

But that doesn’t matter; he can grovel to the man later in the form of buying him something shiny. What’s at the top of his priorities right now is that Stiles is fine; he’s just late. Peter can cope with that. While tardiness is not something he stands for usually, he would much rather that than the boy not showing up at all.

He snorts to himself. He’d been ready to tear out each and every throat who dared to come between himself and a human he’s only had the pleasure of meeting once. His instincts to _protectmate_ took over his sensibilities; he wasn’t able to focus on anything else but finding Stiles and making sure he's safe. Everything else just faded into the background as his wolf took complete control. 

This is going to be an absolute nightmare.

~

After taking some time to relax further, Peter decides to find something to keep himself occupied. Lest he ends up repeating the events of last night, and he doesn’t want to even contemplate the look on Erica’s face if she walked in on that display.

Instead, he ends up searching for his mate’s name through social media. It takes him no time at all to pull up the young man’s Facebook page—his birth name is rather unique after all. He’s currently staring at a photo of him and some other boy around the same age in a rather awkwardly positioned embrace. From the way both of them are angled, Peter deducts they’re drunk and most likely familial in some capacity.

Peter isn’t really paying attention to the other boy, his wolf had grumbled slightly at first glance, but after taking a closer look, it’s apparent there are no intimate feelings between the two young men.

If Peter’s honest, the kid doesn’t look much like a threat anyways.

Peter’s sole focus is on the brown-haired beauty hanging onto the stranger’s side. Wide animated eyes and a smile brighter than the sky on the fourth of July spread across his face. He looks happy. More than happy. He looks so young and carefree. Unburdened, and like nothing in the world could ever bring him down at that precise moment.

He looks absolutely perfect.

It makes Peter's face light up with a smile of his own, his chest filling with that unfamiliar ache, the one he’s read about in numerous books and heard about from countless people throughout his life. He’d scarce believed it; being told that you can physically feel when the mate-bond snaps into place sounded like an utter crock of shit. He couldn’t fathom how you could possibly feel, deep in your heart, deep in your _soul_ , when not only your wolf but _you_ fully accept your mate.

Well, color him a fucking believer.

_Knock, knock._

Peter’s head snaps up, his thoughts flitting away in an instant. He sniffs the air, a filthy grin creeping across his face, slow as molasses, as a delightfully familiar scent assaults his senses.

It’s showtime.

Leaving his computer open at the photo, he rises from his chair. He takes a quick glance in the mirror, making sure nothing of his earlier panic shows through his reflection, straightening his jacket and adjusting his posture. All the confidence and power he possesses is staring back at him. Shoulders back, chest out. His smile turns positively predatory. 

He saunters across his office, taking all the time in the world to reach the door. He can hear it now, his mate’s heartbeat gradually picking up pace with every second he’s left waiting.

Content with how long he’s already let the young man stew, he pulls open the door, moving instantaneously to lean himself against the doorframe in a way he just knows is alluring. “Good evening, Stiles,” he purrs, in his best ‘I want to ravish you on my office floor’ voice, delighting in the skip in Stiles’ heartbeat.

He allows himself the indulgence of shamelessly taking in the man before him, and oh, does Peter want to just eat him up.

He looks utterly divine.

“Evening, Mr. Hale,” Stiles greets, his confidence leaving him and Gods above does he just appear the perfect picture of submission.

Peter will have this beautiful young man eating out the palm of his hand in no time. He’s sure of it. And right now, he can’t remember the last time he’s wanted anything more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know if you think I've forgotten any crucial tags or warnings; the last thing I want to do is hurt anyone. 
> 
> Thank you all so much, and I hope to have some more chapters to post soon!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if on instinct, his eyes find Peters in the crowd. He's leaning against the wall next to the bar, a look on his face that Stiles has come to link with pride. Stiles lets his mouth break into a blinding smile, no doubt looking wild, if not a little manic but at this moment, he doesn't have the power, nor care, to tamper down his elation.
> 
> Stiles can't think of a time he's ever been more content. A time he's ever felt more alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally managed to find some spare time to update this, sorry for the delay, but I wasn't lying when I said I'm a nightmare for updating regularly. 
> 
> I wrote this in a few hours so it's not as polished as I would like, but I needed to get something out.
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with this so far. I hope you enjoy it!

The uniform Peter gives him, suspiciously, fits like a glove. He doesn’t dwell on that little nugget right now, though; he’s too busy assessing his reflection in the mirror to fully contemplate how the hell Peter got his measurements. 

It’s a full three-piece suit, tie, and oxfords, in all black—quite the standard, really. Well, it’s not _all_ black, oh no, that would be way too simple, way too dignifying. _‘I want you to stand out, not blend in,’_ were Peter’s words. Stiles remembers them vividly as they rattle around his currently short-circuiting brain.

The suit—as already established—is all black, apart from one teeny-tiny little detail. That detail being that the jacket is covered in a several hundred-thousand, sickeningly-gold sequence, all of which are sparkling like goddamn tinsel on a Christmas tree.

That’s right, it fucking _sparkles_. Not like those light-up sneakers you get when you’re a kid, oh no, in the right light, it glitters bright enough to stop traffic. There’s definitely no risk of Stiles blending in with the furniture; he wouldn’t be surprised if everyone within a ten-mile radius noticed him.

For years Stiles has been content to just meld into his surroundings, live his life utterly invisible to everything and everyone around him. He guesses that blissful anonymity ends now.

Stiles has to admit, though—even if it’s reluctantly and would never be uttered from his mouth without prior torture—his gay ass kinda loves it. He really doesn’t want to, he knows he should hate it on principle, but God does he look good.

_Damn it._

When Peter had first shown it to him, he stood there open-mouthed and unable to form words at the eyesore he’d be expected to wear, but now, the more he looks at it, the more it grows on him. He internally curses; he remembers distinctly telling Peter that he would wear a baby pink tutu for the kind of money he’s offering, and doesn’t he just regret that statement now. It isn’t quite pink, but the absurdity is on par.

He’s startled out of his thoughts when Peter knocks on the door, asking to enter.

“Eh, yeah, sure,” Stiles answers without looking away from his reflection. He does, however, watch from the corner of his eye as Peter stalks into the room. The man looks his fill, a small curl forming on his lips.

“Well?” the smug bastard asks, his superior senses no doubt clueing him into Stiles’ genuine opinion before even asking.

Stiles isn’t about to outright let on that Peter had been right; he’s way too deep in his pride to ever admit he’s wrong. The Alpha had said, _‘just try it on; I guarantee you’ll change your mind’_ after seeing Stiles’ initial adverse reaction to the offending garment. Stiles had just smiled his best customer service smile and taken it into the staff room to change, being as careful as he could—well, careful-ish—when grumbling his distaste under his breath.

“It’s very... showy.” It isn’t a lie, so his stubborn ass is safe from admittance at the moment. “I kinda feel like Elton John.”

Peter hums thoughtfully. “I did say I wanted you to stand out, and my dear boy, you will most definitely _outshine_ everyone in this.” Stiles clocks the sarcastic smirk gracing Peter’s lips.

Dick.

“Ha. Ha,” he deadpans, glaring at the man through the mirror, earning an amused huff. 

“You’ll be ecstatic to know; this is just one of the outfits I have for you. However, with such short notice, it was the only one I could get made-to-fit before you started. Rest assured, by the week's end, you’ll have a whole wardrobe of _showy_ attire.”

Stiles stares blankly at the man. He’s quite clearly having so much fun here. “How exactly did you find out my size? I know you won’t have dug out that information on social media.”

Peter chuckles as he prowls closer, now standing directly behind him—almost close enough to be plastered across his back. For the umpteenth time in the last forty-eight hours, Stiles holds his breath, willing his heart to stop pounding in his chest at the close proximity of the hottest man alive.

“No, but I am very... _observant_ ,” Peter whispers into Stiles’ ear, raking his gaze up and down his figure, a filthy grin across his face. Stiles isn’t going to overthink the implications of that for now, but God above is it taking all his willpower not to lean back ever so slightly.

Peter continues since Stiles has suddenly found the hem of the jacket so incredibly interesting. Thankfully though, he reverts back to his normal volume, rather than the sultry purr that’s causing a shiver to roll up his spine. “I’ve calculated your hours in such a way that it gives you time to get yourself ready before going on stage, so don’t worry about getting here earlier than what your start time dictates.” He gives Stiles a knowing look.

Christ, barely one day with the guy and he already knows Stiles is a worrier. Sure, today aside, Stiles usually does try to arrive everywhere he goes early, it’s an anxious thing, but he still didn’t think he was that obvious.

“Thank you.” Stiles turns to face Peter as he replies, not sure what else to say to the man but trying to convey as much gratitude in his expression as he can.

Peter has already moved heaven and earth for him; that’s how big of a deal getting this job is for him. He feels like his thanks don’t quite cut it, but it’s all the words he can seem to find. Every time he says it, something inside him twists uncomfortably, like his body is cringing at his inferior display of gratitude. The only thing that’s stopping him from beating himself up too much is that every time he utters the words, Peter looks at him like what he’s saying is more than enough. Like his gratitude means more to the man than anything else he’s ever heard. It makes that uncomfortable feeling inside him ease into something warm and tingly.

“Not a problem, sweetheart.” Peter smiles at him softly, his gaze burning into Stiles’ very soul.

Stiles is suddenly intensely aware of just how close their faces are. If he concentrates hard enough, he can feel the ghost of Peter’s breath against his mouth. His tongue peeks out to wet his bottom lip—a nervous tic—his breath hitching, noticing Peter’s eyes following the movement. All either of them would have to do is just lean in and- 

Peter claps his hands together, breaking the tension. “Now, let’s introduce you to everyone, shall we?” 

Stiles’ attention snaps back to the present. He quickly twists back to face himself in the mirror, taking one last look before steeling his nerves, willing away the deep pink hue spreading across his cheeks. “Okay.”

~

Derek, Cora, and Isaac, Stiles guesses, are all part of Peter’s pack—not that he voices that assessment out loud. From what he managed to read on werewolves before coming here, he found that Alphas are very territorial. They usually surround themselves with pack in their everyday lives, often working together, or in some cases, even living together in order to keep each other safe.

That’s why it isn’t too hard to figure out that Peter wouldn’t just hire _anyone_ to work in his club—Stiles excluded. Being close to your pack, for an Alpha, keeps them grounded, a kind of anchor if you will, reducing the risk of them turning feral. Alphas are the strongest and most powerful among werewolves, but they still need a pack to keep that status.

From what Stiles has figured out, strength in numbers isn’t really the case with werewolves. Instead, the power of a pack is based on the bonds between an Alpha and their betas. If the betas believe their Alpha isn’t worthy of their obedience, no matter how many of them are in the pack, collectively, they'll be weak.

Peter being dubbed the ‘Alpha of all Alphas’ proves that while his pack appears to be small, the betas he does have must believe him to be a God amongst men.

Stiles would be inclined to agree wholeheartedly.

Derek and Cora are Peter’s nephew and niece, so it isn’t too challenging to deduce they’re part of his pack. Had Stiles met the two without Peter there, he would never have guessed they were related to the Alpha. The two of them together are clearly related, but next to Peter, they’re nothing similar.

They’re both drop-dead gorgeous, much like their uncle (and seriously, what is with that? Are all werewolves this unfairly attractive?), but where Peter is lightly tanned and brown-haired with eyes of sapphire blue, Derek and Cora are fair-skinned with hair as black as ebony and eyes that sparkle a deep emerald.

Oh, and don’t get him started on those killer eyebrows.

Another thing that sets them apart is that between the pair of them, they can hardly string a sentence together, whereas Peter could talk the back legs off a donkey.

To be fair, they do seem kind of cautious of Stiles, a bit standoffish one might say, but he can’t really blame them. Here he is, a random human, traipsing around their den like he has every right to be there. Which he kind of does since he works here now too, but the point still stands.

Derek’s the club’s barman, and Cora is one of the dancers as well as being Stiles’ background singer if the need arises. He reckons it’ll be fascinating having Cora as his backing singer, considering she looks like she wants to kill him where he stands, but he’s vowed to think more positively.

Isaac’s an oddity. _Adorable_ , but Stiles is under the impression that he’s playing younger than he actually is. There’s something childlike about his demeanor, and even though he may have a year or so over Stiles, he could easily be mistaken as five or six years younger.

Much to Stiles’ dismay, not much is said about Isaac, only that he’s one of the waiters. Stiles would very much like to get to know the boy better—his curious nature is not a fan of the vague details. Under normal circumstances, Isaac is exactly Stiles’ type. Blonde, pretty, and the typical ‘twink’ kind of guys really do it for him. Not that he makes a habit of being stereotypical, but Isaac is a bottom if he ever did see one, or at least he’s acting the part at the moment. That being said, after meeting Peter, Stiles’ whole notion of having a ‘type’ has been blown straight out of the sea; the Alpha has ruined all other prospects for him without a shadow of a doubt. 

Isaac isn’t very talkative, but Stiles thinks it’s less to do with caution, like the other two, and more to do with general shyness. He’s polite enough, smiling and paying attention to Peter as he speaks, but Stiles can’t help notice the way his eyes hardly venture from the ground. Also, when Stiles had extended a hand in greeting, he’d looked at it as if he wasn’t sure what to do. There’d been a moment of tension before the curly-haired boy looked, not to Peter, but _Derek_ for something akin to approval. He ended up shaking the offered hand when the brooding beta deemed it acceptable—odd but whatever—and seemed delighted to do so, but Stiles couldn’t help how it piqued his curiosity further.

He hadn’t bothered to offer his hand to Derek or Cora. Derek gave him a curt nod in recognition when Peter introduced him, both hands firmly in his pockets, giving Stiles a clear signal to not even bother. Cora scared the shit out of him from first glance, so he just smiled at her and said his greetings, receiving nothing back but a glare that made him feel two feet tall.

Boyd and Erica wander over to join their merry little gathering in the club’s lounge, snapping Stiles from his assessment of the others. Boyd nods to him much like Derek had but seems a little more relaxed in his presence than the day before, still as stoic as ever, but Stiles isn’t offended; that’s just Boyd.

Erica, though, isn’t content with just a subtle acknowledgment; oh no, she has to go one better. “Lookin’ good, Stillinski,” she whispers seductively into his ear, “a real _diamond_ in the rough.” That brings Stiles’ awareness straight back to the fact he’s lit up like Christmas, and suddenly he feels incredibly self-conscious.

He has to admit, though; it’s an improvement from her terrifying-as-hell persona yesterday, but not by much. Stiles is frozen on the spot, unsure whether she’s just playing with her food or genuinely giving him a backhanded compliment. Does he reply or just stand there like a deer caught in headlights?

“Um… thanks?” he says before he even realizes he’s opened his mouth. He swallows compulsively as she continues to leer at him.

Stiles is beginning to realize that she may be that one family member who always says inappropriate things at family gatherings, teaches all the kids to swear, spikes the fruit punch, and basically does just about anything to get a rise out of everyone else. She’s the crazy, fun—self-proclaimed—aunt in the Hale pack, that’s for sure, and with the way Peter rolls his eyes, a real thorn in his side too.

“Erica,” is all he says, a gentle warning but enough to get her to back up.

She doesn’t do it immediately, but her features soften a little when she throws Stiles a wink, smiling playfully as she saunters over to Boyd’s side. He can’t explain it, but the salacious gesture eases something in him; if he had to guess, he thinks this kind of banter maybe Erica’s way of acceptance. If that’s true, Stiles can see himself possibly warming to her.

Maybe.

“Right,” Peter brings all the focus back to him, and Stiles hopes no one notices his little sigh of relief. “Let’s get you set up, little one; we can all continue to talk each other’s ears off when it’s _not_ ten minutes ’til opening.” The man smirks to himself like he’s just told the world’s funniest joke. His sarcasm is met with exasperated huffs before the group scatters to their own respective corners of the room to prepare for the door's opening.

Except for Cora, she stays put. “Will you be needing me?” Her manner is curt, not necessarily rude, but she wastes no time with civilities.

Stiles is taken aback at the smoothness in her voice. He’d expected something close to Erica’s, but instead of dripping seduction like with the blonde, she would have an undertone of nastiness. He’s wrong. She does have that abruptness to her, but now that she’s spoken, it’s more bratty rather than just downright scorn. The fact that she’s even talking to him at all kind of knocks him for six.

“Er…” For some reason, he automatically looks to Peter for his answer and is very grateful that the man notices.

“What do you plan on singing for your opening number? Is it something you can do on your own, or will you need Cora onstage with you?” The Alpha keeps his voice gentle as he elaborates, and Stiles can’t help feeling like he’s being treated like a trembling kitten.

He really needs to get a grip of himself if that’s how he’s being viewed.

Stiles clears his throat before speaking, straightening his posture to give off a sense of confidence. If he’s to work amongst a group of wolves, he better start acting less like prey and more like he’s actually here of his own volition. “I wasn’t sure if you already had a playlist you wanted me to work through; I mean, do you have a theme going on here? Apart from the obvious.” He chuckles to himself. “I have a few ideas, but if there’s something specific, then I’d be happy to start with whatever you want.”

Peter smiles at him, and he doesn’t miss Cora’s subtle look of surprise at him actually managing to speak more than a few words.

“The stage is yours, sweetheart,” Peter explains. “I only ask that you refrain from the _obvious_ , as you pointed out. I’d rather you didn’t start belting out S&M if it can be helped.” Something in Peter’s tone suggests that song has been the subject of far too many conversations.

Stiles snorts. “Ah damn, there goes all my ideas.”

“Hm, maybe keep those for more _private_ settings, sweet one.” Stiles’ heart skips at the implication of those words, breath catching in his throat at the filthy smirk on the Alpha’s face.

They share another intense gaze, staring into each other’s eyes like there’s no one else around, the air around them thick and heavy with tension. Stiles doesn’t want to liken it to one of those moments in a cheesy chick-flick where the two main characters look up at the same time and manage to find each other’s eyes in a crowded room.

Nope, nope, nope. Peter just appreciates his humor; he’s not flirting.

_He. Is. Not. Flirting._

“Ahem.” The weak sound brings their focuses back to the room, both visibly shaking their head to clear any lingering thoughts. Stiles looks at Cora, the source of the cough, seeing that she now has a positively unnerving sneer across her face. 

Peter doesn’t address her, just continues as if nothing is untoward. “Yes, I also want to point out that this isn’t a concert hall nor a rave, so try to keep it elegant. Of course, I’m not against anything sexy, just as long as it’s tasteful. The rest is up to you.”

Stiles nods, but as he opens his mouth to speak, Cora interrupts. “I’ll decide for you; I’m coming onstage, so hurry up and choose what we’re opening with.” She leaves no room for debate, giving Stiles one last look of disdain before turning on her heel and storming towards the far end of the bar.

Stiles watches her go, mouth opening and closing for a second before he finds the words. “Well, that’s that.”

Peter huffs an amused laugh, shaking his head, his eyes following his niece as she leaves the room. “Don’t mind her; she’s harmless. She’s just not used to change.”

“I can relate to that,” Stiles admits, then a thought comes barrelling into his overactive head. “Wait, I’m not taking her job, am I?” He flails around to look at Peter, worry evident in his face.

“Nothing of the sort. She’s a dancer primarily; that’s where the majority of her talent lies and her interest. But, she was also gifted the ability to hold a note. Though, no matter how many times I asked her, she refused the job that is now yours.”

“Why?” Stiles asks before he can stop himself.

Peter shrugs, his gaze still focused on the curtain Cora disappeared through. “It isn’t her passion. She has compromised, though, and is willing to sing when it’s needed as long as it’s not center stage. I had hired a band for the first month of opening, they played Jazz, but none of them were singers. That’s why I posted the ad; a non-vocal band wasn’t what I had in mind when I opened this place. To be honest, nor was branching outside the family, but since Cora wasn’t up for it, I had no choice but to advertise.”

“Well, I, for one, am glad you did,” Stiles confesses, his hand rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

Peter looks at him then, his expression unreadable. “As am I.”

The silence stretches between them for a moment before Stiles remembers the time. “I better go speak with Cora and see what we can decide on, or, more likely, what _she_ has decided on.”

Peter snorts at that. “Don’t let her bully you, Stiles. She’s used to getting her own way, but from what I’ve already seen, you’re a headstrong little thing yourself; don’t change that.”

Stiles smiles fondly before making his way through the club.

“Oh, and Stiles,” Peter calls after him. “That band I mentioned, I never bothered to get rid of them, so, if it pleases you, they’re at your disposal.”

Stiles inclines his head in thanks, then continues walking towards the red curtain behind the bar. He’s feeling a lot less nervous now than he had been but still apprehensive of the night ahead. He just hopes he can win them all over—the audience and pack both. For some reason, the need to be accepted by Peter's pack has rooted itself deep within him. It’s wormed its way onto the top of his list of priorities, and he doesn’t have the power to ignore it.

He decides to jump in the deep end and work his charismatic magic on Cora first. He sucks all the air around him into his lungs, straightening himself out. “Here goes.”

~

Stiles had every intention of sweet-talking his way into Cora's good graces.

Come on; he's a loveable guy, not many enemies that he knows of. People find him annoying, yes, but they usually soften to him eventually. He's funny, if not a little goofy and if he had a nickel for every time someone told him he was _'sweet'_ , well, he'd be rolling in it. 

Cora, however, seems to need a little more _persuading_.

He comes to that conclusion purely based on the fact that as soon as he walks through the billowing red curtain, she has him pinned—quite roughly he might add—against the wall. Then, to add further insult to injury proceeds to all but snarl in his face. "What's your intentions with my uncle?" she hisses at him through clenched teeth, and Stiles may not be an expert, but even he can sense it's taking all her control not to pop a fang.

Stiles takes a second to reply, pausing so he can recover from almost being winded. "Um… what?" Stiles has no idea what he's done, but he's already cursing himself for whatever it is.

"Did I stutter?" She pushes the hand on his chest down a little harder, and Stiles can't stop the squeak that pushes out his throat.

"N-no, I just don't understand the question. I'm here to sing." He raises his hands in what he hopes is a placating gesture. "I mean, what else would I be here for?"

She ignores his question. "That's all?" She doesn't make any move to ease up, just stares at him skeptically. 

"Yes," Stiles chokes out, the pressure on his ribs getting a bit too much. He may be known for being dramatic, but he's convinced he can feel his eyeballs straining against the sockets.

Cora examines him for a second like she's trying to analyze his answer. Apparently what she finds is in his favour, as she lets go of his suit lapel and retreats a few steps backwards, expression going back to neutral. "Good." She pauses a second, allowing Stiles a moment to steady his breathing— _how generous._ "Now." She folds her arms in front of her chest, bouncing once on the balls of her feet. "What are we singing?"

Stiles is so confused; her whole demeanour changes instantly; an out-of-character smile plastered across her face. It doesn't look fake or patronizing, or even unkind; it looks genuine which kind of creeps him out a little.

Christ, Stiles completely underestimated what exactly he's walking into, but with the club opening soon, he's just going to ignore it for now. He'll ask questions later when they're a little less pressed for time. "Erm, I was thinking Just One Yesterday by Fall Out Boy. Slow it down a little, maybe make the piano the main focus to keep it soft. That way, I can just change to the next song as the mood takes me. The band can maybe filter in and out if they know the song or whatever."

"Hm," Cora hums. "I like your taste." She looks at him thoughtfully, and Stiles thinks she's about to disagree. "Sure, let's do it. I can get the guys to move the piano to centre stage, so you're seen better, and I'll take my place to the left."

Stiles is surprised she agrees with him, so he just nods.

"So, do you want me to tell the band to go with the flow? Keep it subtle?" she asks when he says nothing.

"Yeah," Stiles agrees. "Just for tonight. I'll try and keep it simple, and hopefully, I'll pick songs that you know."

"I'm sure I'll manage," she smirks wolfishly—she's definitely related to Peter.

"Okay. But, when I have more time to prepare, I can decide beforehand, so you're all more clued in. I could even write up a playlist?" he chirps before looking off into the distance, distracted by his own thoughts. "I wonder what Peter's opinions are on rehearsals."

"We'll figure it out."

"Wait," he calls after her as she moves to leave. "So you know the lyrics?"

She turns her head just as she's about to step through the curtain, smiling at him over her shoulder. "As I said, _'I like your taste'_." And with that, she leaves the hallway to no doubt bark her instructions to the band.

Stiles quickly retreats into the men's staff room to check his appearance one last time before he has to go on stage. Thankfully, Cora's rough handling hasn't put his suit in too much disarray, nothing a few swipes of his hands can't sort out.

He takes a deep breath to school his nerves; _this is it._

It's not that he really experiences nervousness about this; singing is his passion—his dream. He's never really suffered stage fright which is kind of odd since he hates being the centre of attention in any other situation. But, with singing, he just loses himself in the melody and thinks about nothing other than the words. It takes him so deep into a trance that his mind forgets entirely that he's being watched.

Even still, being watched while he's singing gives him a sort of rush, unlike the anxiety he gets when he's in a crowded room—the nerves that make him want to run away and throw up. This, instead, gives him a burst of adrenaline, a sort of buzz that he can't help be addicted too. It gives him a feeling of worthiness. People only watch him because he's good, and it makes him feel powerful—like the King of the world.

Stiles isn't particularly power-hungry, but even he can't deny that being able to control a crowd with his voice is utterly intoxicating.

~

When Stiles finally emerges, Cora has successfully ordered the band to rearrange the stage so that Stiles and the piano are the main focus. He also notices a little microphone has been placed on the top of the instrument, which he's glad she thought of.

Cora has taken the primary standing mic to the left side of the stage while the band is stationed just off the right, still in view but not the main attraction. 

Stiles notices the lights have been slightly dimmed, setting the mood for the evening. He has to admit that seeing the club in low light is an altogether different experience entirely. Not that Stiles has ever been inside one but, it definitely looks more like a sex club now.

Stiles keeps himself to the shadows behind the bar as he notices a few seats already becoming occupied. He doesn't think it's much past eight, but the place is already starting to fill out. Peter really downplayed the popularity of the place. Who would've guessed there's not only this many werewolves in San Francisco but also this many werewolves interested in BDSM?

With the rate the club is busying, it'll be no time at all before the place is packed.

Stiles wonders internally just how many of these people are here for the club, and how many are here because of _Peter_. After only a month, to be this popular already is quite a feat, especially for an exclusive members-only place.

Stiles takes a gander around his surroundings, reacquainting himself with everything. Derek is stationed behind the bar, shaking up cocktails with a flair of elegant theatrics. Isaac is close by, serving tray in hand as he slinks his way around tables placing Derek's concoctions in front of the relevant patrons. Erica is standing by the entrance curtain, stock still in her bouncers pose, only nodding her head as people walk past. Stiles can't see Boyd, but he guesses the man will be standing at the main doors, or in some other part of the club doing much the same as Erica.

All the Betas seem to have fallen into their roles with a natural grace that Stiles is kind of secretly jealous of. They all know exactly what they're supposed to be doing, and they all look content while doing it, no clumsiness and no resentment for a job they hate waking up for—just a serene pleasure in carrying out what they've been asked to do.

Stiles smiles at the view; he hopes it won't be long until he feels that same sort of peace. A satisfaction for life that he hasn't felt in a really long time.

One other person he doesn't notice is Peter. He would've thought the man would be on the floor, playing the part of the gracious host that he no doubt does exceptionally. He's probably staying out of view until the place is busy enough to be worthy of his presence, or maybe he's changing into another suit that costs more than Stiles' college course.

Stiles can imagine it now, him peeling off those skin-tight suit pants to replace them with, more than likely, something in the exact same fabric but a different colour. Stiles rolls his eyes at the thought.

Of course, it isn't until his mind starts to wander of its own accord that he realizes his mistake when his head starts to cloud with images of his boss's strong, muscular thighs and tightly-muscled ass.

_Oh for fuck sake._

"Are you ready, sweetheart?"

Stiles just about manages to keep down the scream bubbling up his throat, clapping his hand over his mouth to make sure no embarrassing sounds leave him. He turns towards the source of the voice and is greeted to the Alpha werewolf leaning—really, really attractively—on the bar beside him. When the fuck had he snuck in there?

_Goddamn werewolves._

The bastard has the gall to actually chuckle to himself. "My apologies, darling, I couldn't resist. You looked so oblivious; I couldn't help taking advantage. Please forgive me."

Stiles removes his hand once he manages to calm his heart to a pace that isn't close to combusting. "It's fine." Stiles lets out a long, shaky breath. "I just didn't see you approach."

"Hm, I noticed," Peter hums softly. "So, are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be." It comes out choked, and maybe a little clipped, but it's only because he's still trying to reverse the panic rising inside him. 

"Pleased to hear it. I've told Cora that we're going to wait until the place is a little fuller before introducing you."

"Introducing me?" Stiles questions, brows raised towards his hairline.

"Of course," Peter confirms cheerfully. "I want everyone to know exactly who you are—to show you off a little. Unless you'd rather keep them guessing? Keep yourself anonymous, maybe?"

"No, it's fine." Stiles rubs the back of his neck, nervously like he does whenever the conversation is focused on him. "I just didn't think you'd want to make a big deal. I mean, I didn't think I would matter that much," Stiles shrugs, a self-deprecating smile curling his lips.

Suddenly there's two fingers under his chin, gently forcing his gaze to the man beside him. Peter is looking at him with something close to pity, with maybe a little bewilderment mixed in. "Of course you matter," he breathes out softly. "Stiles, you are important to this place, _and_ outside of it. Don't ever think otherwise." The man stares deep into his eyes, and Stiles gets lost for a moment in their sapphire sincerity.

He nods, and the fingers slip away. He pushes away the disappointed feeling in his gut at the loss of contact and instead focusses back on the room—which is now almost full. "Wow," he exclaims on a breath trying to change the topic. "This place fills out fast." 

"Hm," Peter hums in agreement. "I may have contacted a few acquaintances informing them of a delightful new addition to the team. It turns out you're already a star, sweetheart, and you haven't even started yet."

Stiles glares at the man, unbelieving. "Christ on a bike, you did not just fill your club with people because of me?" At Peter's casual shrug, Stiles continues. "Are you serious?! What if they're disappointed? What if-"

"You will never disappoint me, that's all that matters," Peter interrupts, tone brooking no argument. " _I_ hired you, and I'm more than pleased with the fact that you're here, and I don't see any reason that I'll ever even _think_ about letting you go, so don't worry about anyone else."

Stiles is taken aback by the admission. "But what if people leave? What if they don't come back because they don't like me?"

"Then they leave," Peter declares uncaring. "That's their loss, not yours." At Stiles' dumbfounded silence, Peter sighs. "Look, sweet one, I can almost guarantee that no one out there will be anything less than utterly enraptured by you. You have a gift, Stiles, a beautiful thing, and no one in their right mind could deny that. People come to this club for its purpose and they always will, but now, they will also come to see you."

Stiles studies Peters face for any hint of anything less than honesty but finds nothing. "Okay," Stiles gasps out.

Peter nods, moving away from the bar. "But, trust me," he leans over to purr the words into Stiles' ear. "You'll enslave them all."

The Alpha saunters off towards the stage—leaving Stiles panting a little—only stopping briefly to look over his shoulder. "Well? Aren't you coming?"

Stiles almost stumbles over his feet to catch up with the man, falling into line behind him as they make the few steps up to the stage.

Cora is already in position, no doubt having heard the conversation from across the room, and is poised ready to begin. Stiles isn't sure when she had a chance to change, but she's now dressed in a suit similar to Stiles'—minus the glittering jacket. Instead, she has a plain black one, but her tie matches the gold sequence, along with her shoes—not quite as out there as Stiles' outfit, but it compliments him just the same.

She nods to him in recognition as he makes his way over towards the piano stool. He's not sure whether to sit down or wait until Peter has spoken, but his indecisiveness is forgotten the moment Peter opens his mouth.

Stiles notices belatedly that he doesn't need a microphone, his voice carrying to the deepest, darkest corners of the room all by itself. "Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen," Peter greets his guests. "For those of you who are new; welcome, and to the majority who've been here before, _welcome back_."

Stiles watches, bewitched by Peter's ability to speak a few words and already have the attention of every person in the room. He scans the crowd, and not one person is looking anywhere else but at the Alpha—it's like looking away would be a death sentence. Stiles wonders what it feels like to hold that much power.

"Tonight, I have the pleasure of introducing to you the newest addition to Howling at the Moon; a stunning young vocalist whom I have no doubt will charm each and every one of you," he drops his voice low. "And leave you _begging_ for more." He gets a few giggles for that before continuing. "Please join me in welcoming the utterly enchanting; Mieczyslaw Stilinski!"

Roaring applause echoes through the room, but Stiles barely hears it. He's too caught up with the fact that Peter used his real name—and pronounced it perfectly at that. He hasn't heard that name since… not since his mother.

It doesn't even occur to him to ask himself how exactly Peter found that out, too overwhelmed with emotion to care. He can't help the warm smile that spreads over his face. He can feel his eyes wetting as he thinks about how proud his mother would be in this moment, remembering back to the times she would sit with him as he played tunelessly on the piano. 

_'Keep practising, Mieczyslaw.'_ She would giggle—a joyous sound that never failed to warm his heart. _'You will play beautifully one day. I am sure of it.'_

Peter turns to him, and smiles kindly, no doubt sensing Stiles' positive reaction. He winks, mouthing a silent, "all yours." Before walking off the stage.

Stiles takes a moment, feeling his heart swell with jubilance at actually being here, relishing in the welcome he's receiving. He looks over to Cora who, oddly, is smiling straight at him, so he returns the gesture before taking his seat at the piano as the noise of the crowd dies down.

He stretches out his fingers, only pausing a moment to take a breath before moving straight into the opening notes.

_"I thought of angels choking on their halos...."_

The silence of the crowd helps him focus on the music. He puts every ounce of emotion he has into each word.

_"See how dirty I can get them pulling out their fragile teeth, and clip their tiny wings..."_

He faintly notices the band joining him in the background, keeping it subtle as he'd suggested, gradually increasing volume as the song progresses.

As soon as it hits the chorus, Cora joins in.

_"If heaven's grief brings hell's rain, then I'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday..."_

They flow through the song in perfect harmony. For having no chance at a rehearsal beforehand, Stiles can't believe how well it's all coming together.

Close to the end, he risks a glance out to the audience, and from what he sees, not one pair of eyes is focused anywhere but on him. He even notices Derek leaning forward on the bar, his attention no longer on mixing drinks and Stiles can't help the little curl forming on his lips at that.

_"And I'm here to give you all my love, so I can watch your face as I take it all away..."_

Cora belts out the high note as Stiles sings the last few verses. They put all of their passion, all of their intensity in the last few words before the music fades out.

Stiles takes a deep breath, leaning back from the piano as he exhales—all the tension leaving his body alongside the evanescent melody. Cora turns to him, her chest heaving much the same as his, an open-mouthed grin on her face as she gulps in the air around her.

It's only a few seconds before the club erupts in applause.

Stiles can't help the laugh bubbling up from his belly, equal measures giddy and relieved to hear the booming sound.

As if on instinct, his eyes find Peters in the crowd. He's leaning against the wall next to the bar, a look on his face that Stiles has come to link with pride. Stiles lets his mouth break into a blinding smile, no doubt looking wild, if not a little manic but at this moment, he doesn't have the power, nor care, to tamper down his elation.

Stiles can't think of a time he's ever been more content. A time he's ever felt more _alive_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be delving more into Cora, Derek and Isaac in following chapters without taking away from Peter/Stiles too much. Still, anything that is hinted here but not explained will be explained eventually, just sit tight. 
> 
> The song used in this chapter is a [slowed down version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wHHHsz4nUjw) of Just One Yesterday by Fall Out Boy. Just giving you a visual of what I was imagining while writing this. 
> 
> Lets all just pretend that Stiles, Cora and the Band are all like telepathic and can just jump from song to song no problem without rehearsals or anything. In the real world, that probably wouldn't happen, but in this, it just so happens Cora knows the words to every song Stiles sings. It's magic.
> 
> More on the way soon!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles opens up his copy of the contract, folding the paper at the page with his hours and pinning it onto his refrigerator.
> 
> He smiles gleefully at the printed ink, still basking in the glow from being onstage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally found the motivation to knock out a bit more of this. I hope this continues for the next few weeks that I'm to spend in quarantine as I'd really like to get it finished. I have some spare time since work is no longer an option for the foreseeable so hopefully, I can do something productive instead of counting the cracks on my ceiling. 
> 
> I have spent the last few days going over what I have already written and trying my best to correct the errors that have been pointed out to me, I don't think I've gotten them all, but I've tried. The tense should be a little more consistent now, but I don't doubt it will falter again at some points—I can only apologise, Grammarly is not a great Beta and I'm not a professional. 
> 
> I have to admit this whole chapter is a bit all over the place, but it's got porn in it so; hopefully, you can be distracted.
> 
> I really hope you like this and thank you to everyone who has shown love and support so far!

Stiles opens up his copy of the contract, folding the paper at the page with his hours and pinning it onto his refrigerator.

He smiles gleefully at the printed ink, still basking in the glow from being onstage.

The roar of genuine praise from the crowd is still pounding in his eardrums. The way Cora had let go of any bad blood she may have previously harboured against him so they could make the night unforgettable is still forcing his chest to puff out with fondness. The way Peter had looked at him, God will Stiles see that look behind his eyes until the end of time.

Pleasing Peter hadn't been something Stiles thought to be on his list of priorities but now... now he will do anything for that honour.

Stiles flops back onto his bed, limbs spreading akimbo as he relaxes into the soft sheets below him.

He's told himself over and over again not to dwell on the looks, the pet names and the casual words of praise but he just can't stop. He can't stop the feeling he gets inside him every time they talk, every time they stare at one another. He wants Peter to fuck him six ways to Sunday and lord above it's all he can seem to think about when he's around.

Being a werewolf, the man has to have noticed it by now. Or maybe he's just used to that reaction whenever he graces a room with his presence. 

Stiles knows he shouldn't; Peter is his boss. He knows it'd be pointless even if he weren't. Peter isn't interested in him, would never be interested in him—surely?

Teasing and flirting is just the type of man he is. He banters and charms his way through life in the most elegant way, and it's just unfortunate that Stiles is now at the brunt of it. It feels like he's dying of thirst but is being held back from the glistening oasis that is Peter's absolutely lickable body. His mind is chaining him against a nearby tree, _just_ out of reach.

He sighs to himself. He can have his fantasies. No one can stop that, but it's definitely going to prove harder to ignore the reality. He _wants_ Peter. After one night playing with wolves, Stiles can't get enough. He wants like he's never wanted anyone before. He can't explain it. He never believed in the possibility of love at first sight, but after meeting the Alpha, he thinks there may be something deeper lingering inside him than just ardent lust.

 _No._ That's just ridiculous. Stiles has never been one to think rationally, but even this sounds insane to his own ears. _Love at first sight?_ Is he joking?

The man is drop-dead gorgeous, and he's willing to search Heaven and earth to find someone who disagrees—even the saintliest nun would fawn over the man. That's all it is: an obsessive infatuation and need to be fucked by the hottest man alive since Lucifer himself.

It's perfectly natural for him to feel like he'd willingly drag his balls through broken glass just to hear the man praise him. Most people would feel the same, right? Stiles is pretty sure he'd thank the man for running him over with his car, then happily beg for his forgiveness at chipping the paintwork.

Stiles laughs out loud. Jesus, he needs to get laid. He's so desperate that even his thoughts have abandoned all hope. His body seems to be screaming for him to be touched, even if it's a hard smack across the-

That reminds him.

Stiles scrambles to his feet, searching around the room for his laptop.

"Ah, ha!" he exclaims triumphantly as he digs out the machine from under a pile of dirty laundry. He reaches over to pick it up and glances at the clock on the wall—it's two in the morning. "Meh, it'll be fine," he mutters aloud to himself—as he often does.

Per his contract, he's scheduled to go back to the club tomorrow—or should he say today?—but he's not expected until eight so he has all day to sleep.

He bounces back onto his bed with a little more energy than most would have at this time in the morning and begins loading up the laptop.

Stiles has watched a lot of porn in his life. A crazy amount but when it comes to BDSM, he doesn't exactly know the ins and outs. Sure, he's gotten off more times than he can count to men being manhandled, tied up, ordered around and fucked roughly but Peter having a whole club dedicated to the idea makes him curious as to what exactly it does involve.

The man had said whips and chains weren't the only things, and yes Stiles did sort of know that even before his ignorant comment but he's not exactly sure what. He distantly remembers Peter's reaction to being called Sir, and that, Ladies and Gentlemen, sure as Hell makes his dick twitch—colour him fucking interested.

~

Stiles jolts awake, his still fully clothed body half hanging off the bed, a long line of drool connecting his mouth to the pillow.

"Attractive," he mumbles sarcastically as he wipes the wet on the back of his hand.

He grumbles sleepily, flopping onto his back a little closer to the middle of the mattress. He takes a quick glance at his phone, squinting distastefully at the one o'clock that flashes back at him. Christ, he must have been exhausted.

He can't exactly remember when he'd closed his eyes, but with how his laptop is still sitting open dangerously close to the edge of the bed, he guesses he must've just passed out mid research. Not really a new thing for him.

He lets a loud groan escape him as he stretches his aching muscles, his body not loving him for the position he'd chosen to lie in during the night.

Only when his brain has slowly come back online does he remember that he'd woke with a start—a start of the _sexy_ kind, his mind provides helpfully.

After all his research, it's no wonder his sex-deprived brain had hijacked his dreams with wonderful images of a particular dominant Alpha werewolf bending him over that glorious white piano and fucking his ass raw.

Stiles shivers a little at the thought, noticing just now that his dream hadn't provided a _happy ending_ —the throbbing dick tenting his jeans being the obvious giveaway. No, instead his body decided the second before he was about to come was the perfect time to wake up— _typical._

Except, there's a reason he'd woken up with a jolt, and it wasn't because his mind was working against him. No, it was because, at just one hard thrust away from falling over the edge, Peter—dream Peter—had decided at that moment to bring his hand down on his ass, hard _._

It had been enough of a surprise to wake him up, the phantom sensation against his flesh snapping his eyes open. He's never really thought about being spanked before. Never jerked off to the idea but right now with his cock rubbing almost painfully against the zipper of his jeans; he may not be as opposed to the concept as he initially thought.

Stiles is no blushing virgin, but all the relationships of a sexual nature he's been in before have been pretty vanilla. So, even if spanking had been something to cross his mind before now, he's never really had much of an opportunity to explore it. Or maybe the fact that he's never brought it up with any of his partners is clue enough on how much he hasn't desired the idea. 

Stiles is a curious guy and very open-minded at that, but the whole idea of pain has never really crossed his mind as being something he might enjoy. He doesn't really understand it if he's honest. How people can get off on being hurt is a bit of an anomaly to him but the vision of Peter bringing his hand down against his ass until it's red and bruised makes his dick impossibly harder.

Tiredness forgotten, Stiles scrambles to pop open the buttons on his pants, clumsily pulling the jeans, along with his boxers down and off completely. He throws them on the floor in the vague direction of his other dirty laundry as he fumbles with his t-shirt, getting it stuck on his head in his haste.

When he's finally naked, he opens his bedside drawer in search of his half-empty bottle of lube.

He flops back down on the bed, wasting no more time, he spreads his legs—bending them at the knees—slicking up his hand with the cool gel. So desperate to get off with the thoughts still fresh in his mind, he plunges two fingers as deep as he can into the tight heat.

The burn makes his eyes roll back into his head as he begins the steady rhythm of fucking himself with his fingers. He brings his other hand to his cock, stroking himself wildly as he imagines the flaming sting of Peters hand connecting with his sensitive flesh—a punishing strength to every smack.

A whimper escapes his throat as he hears his own voice begging Peter to punish him, to mark him up, to forgive whatever it is he's done. God, the notion of Peter swatting his ass for being bad shouldn't appeal to him as much as it does, but the thought of Peter growling above him as he plays the part of judge, jury and executioner is seriously turning him on.

Stiles' fingers curl inside him, teasingly close to that little bundle of nerves that he's struggling to reach from this angle. Grunting in frustration, he rolls onto his stomach, his knees automatically folding under him to present his ass to the ceiling. He knows he can get deeper this way, can almost-

A guttural moan echoes through the room as his fingers press against that sweet spot, he picks up the pace of both hands, dangerously close to falling over the edge. His shoulders begin to ache with having to hold his body up as his hips simultaneously rut forward into his fist and backwards onto his fingers in a frantic need to get off.

But it's not enough; he needs something else, something more.

Almost sobbing with the need for release, he moves his hand from his cock and digs his fingers into the meat of his ass, trying to mimic the sensation of the pain Peter could subject him too. He alternates between nipping and scratching, feeling his ass heat beautifully under his efforts. At this angle, he can't even hope to get a good connection by hitting himself, but he's nothing if not inventive. 

What finally pushes him over that edge though, is the thought of Peter seeing him like this, writhing and desperate. His silky smooth voice purring in his ear-

_'Come for me, my good boy.'_

Stiles shakes with the force of his orgasm, vision going blurry, muscles tensing as he paints his sheets. His mouth hangs open on a silent scream, his chest heaving as he collapses bonelessly onto the bed. He doesn't even have the energy to grimace as he lands in his own mess.

It takes him a few moments to catch his breath before he can even contemplate moving his hands. With an obscene squelch, he removes his fingers, wiping them haphazardly on the ruined bedding. He rolls out of the sticky side of the bed, bursting into a fit of giggles—high on all sorts of self-lovin' endorphins.

Once he's finally calmed down, he concludes that dried up semen is definitely not sexy, and that's all the motivation he needs to will his muscles to carry him to the bathroom to clean up. 

~

Stiles had thought his shower would've taken longer, but apparently, his body is completely and utterly spent. No chance in Hell for round two and if he's honest, he's kinda glad.

He dries himself as if he has all the time in the world, allowing himself the small pleasure of actually taking his time for once.

For most of his life he's done everything in fast forward, never really having the time or patience just to take a moment to breathe. It's mostly his own fault; he can't manage his time for shit and always ends up having to rush around if he's got any hope of getting anywhere on time.

As he walks past his mirror, something catches his eye. He doubles back on himself, almost flailing to take a closer look.

He's standing half-turned—so his ass is the main focus—and from this angle, he sees some pretty impressive purple-red welts forming on the left cheek. He didn't even think he'd dug his nails into the skin that hard, but with all the evidence now on display, it suggests the contrary.

He looks like he's been scratched by some wild animal— _ha, if only_ —as four stark lines rise on the surface of his pasty white skin. To be honest, the whole cheek is a mess, blushing red, pink and even purple in some spots, but the scratches are definitely the main focus.

"Well, damn."

~

Stiles makes it to the club with twenty minutes to spare. He remembers Peter telling him that he didn't have to try and be early, but if he'd sat about for much longer, he'd have vibrated out of his skin—not to mention the sting in his ass every time he actually sat down was also proving a bit of a pest.

He parks up in the spot Peter has designated to him around the back of the club. The place seems empty, no other cars parked apart from his and a black Camaro—which seems slightly odd. Its twenty to eight and these are the only two cars parked in the entire staff car park.

Yesterday when he'd arrived, granted it was late, it had still been before eight, and everyone else was already there.

Maybe they all came in the same car? Could be a possibility, they might live together, work together and travel together—saving the planet and all that. Sure it sounds a little strange to Stiles, but for werewolves, it may be normal? And to be honest, Stiles has only now decided it'd be a great idea to revaluate his definition of strange, all things considered. 

He shakes his head of his curiosities; he can literally just find out, instead of standing about like an idiot, if he hurries up and gets his ass through the door.

He scrambles out of the Jeep, graceful as ever, and makes his way in through the back door. He uses his key card to open it—another thing Peter had prepared for him before he left last night—and pads his way through the club. "Hello?" he calls out cautiously. He knows if any of the wolves are around, they'll hear him at even a whisper, but he doesn't really want to draw too much attention to himself.

No one makes themselves known.

For some reason, his heart starts to pick up speed. The absolute silence of the place is making his skin crawl. It's eerie. He hadn't expected an entourage to greet him, but he did expect Boyd or Erica to be lurking about, or at least some sort of background noise to be echoing through the place.

Do none of them speak to each other? Christ, he'd even welcome Cora's cheery face right now.

He tiptoes to the end of the long hall, his feet light against the carpet. He isn't too sure why he's creeping about exactly, like making himself as quiet as possible isn't just bumping up the horror movie factor by one thousand and ten per cent.

Stiles takes a deep breath before he reaches out to lift the red curtain, but before he can, it's ripped out of the way. "Hey, Stiles!"

Stiles isn't embarrassed about the scream that leaves his lungs. Nope, not embarrassed one bit—it is, after all, a very manly scream. "Fucking fuck, Isaac," he gasps out as he clutches at his chest, heart stuttering painfully at the fright. "Creeping Jesus."

He can hear the blood rush past his ears as his lungs desperately try to gulp in as much air as possible. He vaguely notices his back connecting with the wall as he slumps against it, steadying himself. His legs are shaking, but he manages to stay upright.

He shuts his eyes, counting to ten, distantly aware of hands rubbing up and down his arms and a soft voice coaxing him away from the light. "I-I'm so sorry... I didn't mean to scare you," Isaac mutters weakly. "Stiles, just breathe, it's okay. I'm sorry."

Stiles' heart melts at the genuine contrite in the boy's voice, and it's that gentle pull at his heartstrings that pushes him to comfort the wolf. For some reason completely unknown to him, he feels a strong urge to protect the boy at all costs.

"No, no... it's my fault; I'm too jumpy," he forces out a laugh, it's breathy and a little flat, but he's just trying to reassure the boy.

Isaac had looked so happy to see Stiles when he'd first appeared, but Stiles, being the chicken shit that he is, hadn't managed to keep his cool long enough to appreciate the sentiment.

"I just didn't hear you approach," he continues. "So I thought I was alone... I'm sorry, I've just never been good with people jumping out on me. I'm pathetic, really." Another laugh, but it's a little less forced this time.

"I didn't mean too," Isaacs whispers, his eyes glistening in sorrow as they cast to the ground. "Do you forgive me?" His hands are still clutching at Stiles' arms as he speaks, and Stiles can't deny that the touch is grounding him.

"Nothing to forgive." He gives Isaac a soft smile, and his heart leaps when he gets one in return. "But, we really should get you a bell," he jokes.

Isaac laughs, and it's utterly adorable. "I'll be mindful in the future," he says through soft giggles. "I scare easily too, so I don't know why I'm not more careful."

Suddenly, it's as if Isaac has remembered something—something not particularly pleasant. Stiles can see the way he instantly shuts down, his face dropping visibly.

"Hey, hey." He grabs Isaacs face in his hands, giving the boy no choice but to lift his gaze up and away from the floor. "Just forget about it, okay? No harm done." Stiles looks deep into the soft, grey eyes and waits.

After a moment, Isaac nods, gingerly pushing into the touch, sighing softly and seemly just enjoying the contact.

However, he pulls away in the next instant, as if burned, stumbling backwards, looking slightly flustered. Stiles pulls his hand back instinctively, holding them out in a placating gesture, quietly wondering what the Hell has startled the boy.

"Come on, lets erm... Derek wants to speak to you," the boy mumbles, stuttering over his words a little as he fidgets with his hands. 

"Okay, cool." Stiles' smile is a little lopsided, still studying Isaac for the reasoning behind his odd behaviour, but he nods an affirmative, moving off the wall to follow.

Isaac leads the way into the main room, where Derek is indeed standing as casual as get out behind the bar drying glasses.

Stiles lifts his hand awkwardly—a sort of wave—earning him a slanted glare in return.

"Isaac, would you go double-check all the rooms are ready before opening, please?" Derek instructs, not looking up from his task.

"I-I already-" Isaac starts but is cut off.

Derek doesn't even say anything to interrupt the boys stuttering, just stops mid wipe of the glass, looks up, eyebrows raised in a silent challenge and stares— _or maybe it's more of a glare?_ The look is menacing enough that Stiles gulps and has to stop himself from crawling away to do the task himself. 

Isaac just nods and skitters away without further protest.

Stiles scoffs, face screwing up distastefully. "What the fuck was that all about?" he snaps before he can stop himself, his protective instincts coming to the fore.

He hasn't ever considered himself much of a _'mother hen'_ type, but something about Isaac just pulls at that maternal instinct lying latent deep inside him. He may be jumping the gun a little here, but something just isn't right with the boy. He seems almost as terrified as Stiles had been the day he'd asked Jackson Whittemore—King Bee of high school—to prom. He'd rejected him, but that's not important right now.

But seriously, what the Hell is he thinking? Even if he wanted to protect Isaac from whatever he thinks is happening to him, how the fuck does he propose to do that against a fucking werewolf?

He recoils almost immediately, realising his mistake at the look Derek throws his way. Stiles knows Derek can hear his heart, and it makes him seethe. It's enough to totally wipe away any inkling of self-preservation that may have tried to bubble up. He squares his shoulders, trying his best to look like he can back up his defensive nature—even though he knows fine rightly that Derek could cripple him with nothing more than a stern look.

Derek studies him for a beat, and Stiles is confident he would be able to hear a pin drop in this silence.

Stiles swears on everything he has that he sees the corner of Derek's lips twitch, but it's gone before he can overthink on it. "I wanted to congratulate you," Derek says after a moment, tone airy and unaffected as he goes back to wiping the glass in his hand.

"You- _what_?" Stiles' brain short circuits. 

"The bar tripled its intake last night because of you," Derek continues, seemingly unbothered by Stiles' earlier question or his inability to form full sentences at the moment.

"Bec-because of me?"

Derek nods. "Hm-hm. Patrons don't usually linger for as long as they did last night. Most sit in the bar while they wait for a room to become available, but because of you, most of them didn't even move from their seats the entire evening."

"Huh." Stiles' mouth hangs open as he processes Derek words. "Well, I'm sure it's not all because of-"

"Isaac is taken," Derek interrupts, completely changing the subject mid-flow. "I suggest you remember that."

Stiles mind falters yet again.

_What the actual fuck is happening right now?_

"I-I didn't-"

"I just don't want you to get yourself into any unnecessary _altercations_ because no one bothered to warn you," Derek elaborates, his tone and body language radiating calm but Stiles detects, very clearly, the hint of warning behind his eyes.

"Listen, man," Stiles lifts his hands as a sort of truce. "Isaac is great and all but I'm really not looking for anything like that." He lets out a little chuckle. "I'm just here to sing; I don't know how many times I have to tell people that... I might just get it printed on a t-shirt."

Derek looks at him again, huffing through his nose— _is it a laugh?_ Stiles will take it.

"Okay." Derek nods. "Now, go get ready, we're opening soon."

Stiles shakes his head to clear his thoughts, not really sure what else to say right now. He had every intention of defending Isaac from whatever the Hell is going on with the boy, but everything has just been flipped upside down, and he's not sure what day of the week it is right now.

Werewolves are strange; he knows that much. Derek went from congratulating him to telling him Isaac isn't single in less than two sentences.

Maybe he has nothing to worry about, Derek seems to be doing the job of playing Isaacs's protector all by himself. Or perhaps he's playing _Stiles'_ protector? He said he didn't want him walking into any altercations—Stiles can read the small print—in the event no one tells him Isaac already has a boyfriend— _or girlfriend_.

But, Stiles hadn't even done anything even remotely-

Oh shit, they're werewolves. They're incredibly possessive of what's theirs; he knows that from Scottie. Derek must've heard him try to comfort the boy and is just pre-empting the scenario of Stiles getting attached to something he can't have. Or maybe he's warning him to stay back lest Isaac's lover detects something sinister and decides to rip Stiles a new one.

Surely, Stiles' touch on the boy won't be seen by his partner as a challenge? 'Cause no. Stiles isn't about to stay here and become werewolf chow. Nope, nah, nuh-huh-

"Stiles?" Derek interrupts his train of thought.

He'd forgotten he had an audience to his internal meltdown. "Erm yeah, sorry, got lost in my own head." He rubs the back of his neck nervously, clearing his throat before continuing. "Where's- eh, where's everyone else?"

"Don't worry about it; they'll be here soon," Derek replies curtly after eyeing him up speculatively. "I'll send Cora into you when she gets here."

"Okay, cool." Stiles nods, giving Derek a little awkward wave before making his way to the staff room—he can continue his mini-breakdown in there. 

~

It turns out, Stiles doesn't get a chance to really pursue his thoughts as almost thirty seconds after he's changed into his uniform for the night—it had been hanging up on the mirror with a post-it stuck to the front saying, _'I hope you like it, sweetheart'_ —Peter storms into the room with Cora in tow.

Stiles startles slightly, turning to ask where the Hell the fire is but loses all words at seeing the state of the man.

He's dressed as wonderfully as usual, there's no doubt, but is a little bit bedraggled looking with regards to his hair and well, his jacket and tie. Cora looks much the same. It's as if they were both in a rush to get here, so had forgone the usual pampering and just thrown on some clothes and shot out the door. They both look slightly... not _angry_ , but stressed out might be more appropriate. 

It isn't until Peter's eyes find Stiles' that all the tension seems to seep out of his shoulders. "Hello, little one," he greets on an exhale.

"Hey." Stiles pauses for a moment. "Are you guys okay?" he asks, unsure.

Peters smiles kindly. "Absolutely fine."

Stiles assesses him a moment before nodding—It's not his business.

"You look positively stunning," Peter changes the subject—apparently a common occurrence among wolves.

Stiles feels his cheeks heat at the compliment; he twists his head away to hide his reaction. "Thanks."

He has to admit, Peter has once again chosen him an outfit that he shouldn't love, but he really does. Keeping with the black trousers, shirt, shoes and tie from last night, he has swapped the gold-sequence jacket for a green, military-style blazer with gold trim. He looks like he should be fighting in some Napoleonic war or something but its pretty cool.

"The doors are opening in ten, come find me when you're ready," Peter breaks the momentary silence before walking back out the door.

Stiles nods, but the man leaves before he can see the gesture. His eyes meet Cora's in the mirror, and she smiles. "I'll go get changed. Will be out in a minute." And with that, she's gone too.

Something has happened, Stiles' spidey senses are tingling, but he won't dwell on it too much. While he's absolutely dying to know what, it's not his business and he'll repeat that mantra until his curiosity simmers down.

Since he's ready, he thinks there's no point in standing about in here letting his mind wander, so he starts to make his way back to the main hall after one last lingering look at himself in the mirror. The place is of course still empty as the doors haven't yet opened, but the pack are all mingling close to the bar.

Peter is seemingly briefing them on something that he can't quite hear. "He was this close to-" the Alpha grits out through his teeth but stops short as he sees Stiles walking towards the bar.

Their gazes all turn to him as he approaches, and the conversation stops completely.

"Hey, if you wanted to talk about me, all you had to do was tell me to piss off," Stiles jokes, trying to lighten the obviously sour mood—his brain to mouth filter working overtime.

Peter smirks at his quip, but Erica scoffs. "You're not _that_ special, Stilinski."

And doesn't that just jab him right in his already low self-esteem?

" _Erica,"_ Peter all but growls.

Erica holds the Alphas glare for a second before backing down. Stiles catches her head tilting ever so slightly to show her throat before she turns on her heel and sashays towards her post for the evening. Boyd gives Stiles a sympathetic look before following her.

"My apologies, sweetheart. Erica isn't in a humorous mood it would seem."

"It's fine," Stiles shrugs, plastering on his best fake smile.

Peter moves forward as if he's about to comfort him. His hand stretching out towards his shoulder but stops mid-air. Stiles doesn't miss the Alphas nostrils flaring; he guesses that if Peter knew Stiles was already aware of the supernatural, this would be a time that he'd let his eyes bleed scarlet. But, instead, he clenches his jaw, face contorting into a grimace and Stiles is kinda thankful that he seems to be controlling his apparent need to let the fangs drop. "Isaac. My office. _Now,_ " he spits out before charging past him.

Isaac, after a quick wide-eyed glance between Derek and Stiles, scrambles to follow like a scolded puppy follows his master.

_Oh fuck._

Stiles pales, all his breath leaving him as his brain stumbles upon the realisation.

_Isaac. Is. Peters._

Oh, God, what has he done?! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe, major misunderstanding—let's see how this plays out! Also, the next chapter will be Peters POV so we will see exactly what has happened to cause such tensions. 
> 
> More on the way soon!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter receives the photograph at around ten in the morning.
> 
> There doesn’t need to be a signature attached to the cursed square Polaroid, the scent wafting through the air as soon as he opens the addressed envelope is more than enough to clue him into precisely who sent it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters are mostly between Peter and his pack, so Peter's POV again.
> 
> I won't spoil too much, but apologies in advance for kind of going off on a random tangent. I know this chapter may be a bit out of place, but let's just go with it.
> 
> This fic is becoming longer and longer. It had been my goal to finish at twenty thousand words but, erm, that all went to shit when I started getting new ideas and just kept expanding. If you were hoping for a quick and dirty BDSM fic, so was I, and no one is more disappointed with that fact than me. However, I hope you will still continue reading anyways as I'm actually really enjoying it—even if my notes suggest otherwise.
> 
> I think this may class as a slow burn at this point too.
> 
> I swear you will get sick of me saying this, but all mistakes are mine—and there will be tons—so, just comment any that really bug you so I can change them or, just enjoy the story and try to ignore the bad grammar and punctuation.
> 
> Thank you for all your wonderful comments so far, stay safe and take care!

Peter receives the photograph at around ten in the morning.

There doesn’t need to be a signature attached to the cursed square Polaroid, the scent wafting through the air as soon as he opens the addressed envelope is more than enough to clue him into precisely who sent it.

_Gerard Argent._

Peter had wiped out the Argents and their associates years ago, but _somehow_ Gerard had been the only one to slip his clutches and no matter how long he’s spent hunting the maggot down, he pretty much just fell off the face of the earth.

Over the years, with his growing wealth and name, he’s managed to garner a few outside sources, allies that have dedicated their time in aiding him in seeking out the remaining hunter. But to no avail.

Peter had hoped that after the massacre of his entire family, the geriatric fuck would’ve crawled under a rock to lick his wounds until some painful human illness took him to his long-awaited grave.

_No such luck it would seem._

Instead, it appears he’s been biding his time until the right moment to step back into Peter’s radar. 

Kate Argent, Gerard’s daughter, along with several Argent hirelings set fire to the Hale pack home over ten years ago. Peter, Derek and Cora were the only survivors. Most call them lucky, but having stood listening to the sound of your entire family—men, women and children—scream in pain as they burned to death, didn’t exactly feel much like luck at the time.

Heartbreak, hatred, _rage_ could possibly be more appropriate for how Peter had felt—still feels.

From the very moment his sister’s Alpha spark passed to him, as soon as the power began coursing through his veins, he’d made it his life’s purpose to see every single Argent pay for what they had done.

And pay they did.

He knows revenge won’t bring his family back, but oh, did it feel glorious to rip out the throats of everyone who even had a passing glance at the plan to set the Hale house alight.

Peter is known in the supernatural world for his savage vengeance. Anyone who is anyone knows not to cross him, or his own, unless they’re not opposed to the idea of being skinned alive.

Almost singlehandedly, Peter wiped out the Argents and anyone who associated themselves with the hunters—earning him quite the reputation. He walks into a room, and even the most influential Alpha’s grovel for his favour. He’s a widely respected, feared and envied leader and he won’t lie and say it’s anything less than exhilarating. 

Peter has never been a good man; he’d been his sister’s left hand. The one who got his hands dirty for the safety of the pack, so he’s no stranger to watching the life drain from another’s eyes. He’s washed blood and viscera off his skin and clothes more times than he can count and he regrets none of it.

While he maybe should’ve let it go, having one remaining Argent still out there breathing just doesn’t sit right with him, never has.

He’s been told to forget about him, that he’s just one man and Peter should be proud of everything he’s achieved—by only the bravest souls who didn’t value their spleens might he add—but Gerard isn’t just one man, just one Argent. He’s _the_ Argent. He’s the human equivalent of an Alpha to his pack of hunters and Peter wants him dead. Wants him rotting. Wants the crows to feed on his insides and shit him out over the ocean.

Peter will just sleep easier knowing he’s gone, knowing he’s succeeded in his promise to Cora and Derek, to his deceased pack, to rid the world of every last one of them.  
  
It’s been ten years, but his skin still crawls at the scent—gunpowder and wolfsbane. His wolf snarls as all the memories of bloodcurdling screams, white-hot flame and thick black smoke flood his mind.

For the first few years after his family’s murder, there hadn’t been a single night he hadn’t dreamt of it. Hadn’t woken up covered in sweat, panting for breath as he relived that night over and over again. That’s primarily what led him to the business he’s in now. He’d always been kinky, but BDSM has been more than that—it’s been an escape. A new beginning, something to take his mind away from the past. He never wants to forget, but he wants to move on.

Being a dominant has actually mellowed him—has given him a purpose other than just revenge. Has made the days searching for that one remaining Argent a lot more meaningful and lot less just unrestrained animalistic instinct.

Being an Alpha to his pack has helped too, having wolves who depend on him has made it easier to live with the memories. He knows the lust for the blood of his enemies will never dissipate, not until Gerard lays lifeless under his claws. Still, it keeps him occupied at the very least.  
  
He stares down at the picture once more, taking in every detail on display to him.

It’s of Stiles.

The boy isn’t doing anything even remotely unordinary, just walking across his universities campus minding his own business, but it still boils Peters piss. Makes his fangs and claws extend. It’s still a threat.

While there’s nothing to suggest his mate has been hurt in any way, the compromise of his privacy being the only real offence, Peter still doesn’t doubt Gerard’s capabilities. He’s not evaded all of Peter’s resources over the last ten years because he’s stupid. Well, one could argue that sending Peter this picture is definitely a foolish move, but he’s still smart. Sneaky. A tactician. The amount of times Peter has been so close to finding him he could taste it only for the man to evade him once again is embarrassing.  
  
How long has the man been lying in wait for something to crop up that he can use against Peter? How does he even know Stiles is here?

Gods above, Peter has moved more times than he can count just to keep himself and his pack safe from anything the man may be plotting in the shadows, never staying in the same place too long in case the Argent had followed. However, it seems one month in San Francisco, and suddenly he has something more than just pack that he’s not willing to lose. He’s kept himself distant from the possibility of getting attached to anyone on the outside, of ever needing to worry about anyone else. Kept his focus on his pack, his main priority being to keep them safe. They are wolves, they’re durable, but Stiles, Stiles is human, and worst of all, he means the absolute world to Peter.  
  
He has to find Gerard. Finish this once and for all. He won’t lose Stiles. _His mate_. He’ll go to Hell again before that happens.

He picks up his phone, dialing the first number in his contacts. It only rings a few seconds before connecting. “Boss, what’s up?” Boyd’s voice comes through the device, calm as usual, but Peter can sense the little flicker of concern. It’s not often Peter rings his pack for pleasantries.

“We have a problem.” He sits back in his chair as he casually twists the photograph in his hand, only to bolt back upright at what he finds on the back. “An Argent problem.”

He hears Boyd’s sharp intake of breath at the other end. “You’re sure?” his Beta asks, voice wavering. He can hear Erica whispering for an explanation in the background, but Boyd shushes her. 

“You doubt me?” Peter slurs through his elongated fangs. 

“Never, Alpha.” The reassurance comes quickly; Peter knows he’s telling the truth without hearing his heartbeat, he blames his paranoia on his dwindling control. “Where is he?”

Peter takes in a deep breath, reigning in his need to hunt as best he can. He knows exactly where the man is, as on the back of this small square photograph is an address, scrawled haphazardly in red ink.

Gerard isn’t hiding, isn’t even giving Peter the thrill of the chase. He wants to be found. 

“He’s sent me a little token, something that tells me he’s ready,” Peter speaks on autopilot, distracted as his mind works furiously to figure out Gerard’s game.

“Ready? Ready for what?”

“To end this.”

Peter knows the likelihood of this being a trap is inevitable. Knows Gerard won’t have spent the last ten years sitting twiddling his thumbs. He’s no doubt scraped together every single able-bodied man and woman who is confident enough to call themselves hunters, in the hopes of defeating the wolf who killed his family.

He won’t have given Peter his exact location thoughtlessly. But, Peter can almost smell the confidence the Argent has that the Alpha will show up. He knows what he holds over his head, knows precisely what threatening Stiles will do to Peter. All the pieces are firmly in Gerard’s favour, and the hunter knows it, but what Gerard seems to be underestimating is exactly how feral an Alpha werewolf can react when being backed into a corner—when everything he holds dear is being threatened.

If he wants proof that Peters kind is nothing more than beasts to be put down, well, he’s about to see just how much of a monster Peter can be. 

“Is he in San Francisco?” Boyd asks through the silence, snapping Peter out of his thoughts.

“Yes, and he’s made the worst mistake anyone could ever have made.”

“What, besides staying alive, you mean?”

Peter huffs a laugh at Boyd’s quip. “He’s going to wish he hadn’t when I’m done with him.” Peter grins maniacally to himself, the thought of his claws ripping through the scoundrel’s flesh is sending a phantom euphoria through his core. “He’s dared to threaten what’s mine. Dangling his leverage in front of me like bait.” He flexes his claws as he imagines how the man will scream, how he will beg for his life. “He knows where Stiles is, and I swear if he even lays a _finger_ on my mate, for all the things I will do to him, he’ll _pray_ for me to end his miserable existence.”

Peter hangs up the phone, knowing his Betas will waste no time in coming to his aid. They all know Peters lust for Gerard’s blood, have helped him as much as they could over the years.

The number of pointless errands he’s sent Erica and Boyd on in search of this man has been too many to count; he’ll forever be thankful to the pair. Nothing their Alpha asks of them is too much; they would run headfirst into any battle willingly for him, taking on Peter’s problems as if they were their own.

Cora and Derek had been too young when Peter started wiping out most of the hunters, but now they both share in his thirst for the last of their blood.

Isaac is too timid to take any part in it, has no desire or need to hurt anyone, but that’s okay. He’s helped in his own ways, been a beacon of calm for his Alpha and the pack.

Peter doesn’t know what he’d do without each and every one them; they’re more than he ever could have hoped for.

Now all he has to do is prepare himself. He will not lose this fight; he will raze the world to the ground if he has too.

No one will ever take what is his. _Ever. Again._

~

Within half an hour, his Betas arrive at his apartment, now all standing before him, eagerly awaiting their orders.

“Derek, you and Isaac are to stay behind. Look after the club, make sure there’s someone-”

“Screw the club, Peter. I want to be by your side when that bastard pays for what he did,” Derek is quick to interrupt; his eyes flashing vibrant blue as he struggles to keep his composure.

“I understand that pup, but I need someone to stay here for Stiles. I need to make sure he’s safe should the worst happen. I trust you with that, Derek,” Peter tries to appease the wolf, knowing he can’t blame his nephew for wanting to help, but he has to think rationally.

“What about Cora?” Derek asks, his energy for argument waning.

“Nuh-uh, not a chance am I missing this,” Cora chirps up from behind them, inspecting her nails as if nothing is untoward.

At Derek’s petulant huff, Peter decides on a different tactic. “What about Isaac? Who’s going to keep him safe?” Peter looks to the blonde-haired boy, knowing that mentioning him will have Derek stand down almost instantly.

“I-I could come too?” Isaac’s small voice carries through the room, shaking with worry.

Peter smiles fondly at him, knowing that he’s only offering himself up to try to please his Alpha, even when the very thought of conflict terrifies him. “No, Isaac, I won’t subject you to that, pup.” Peter runs his hand over the back of the Betas neck, soothing him. “Derek, if we don’t return, I need you to keep them both safe, get them as far away from here as possible. Can you do that for me? I trust you to do what is necessary.”

Derek looks at him, his expression sorrowful at the implication that his pack may not survive but nods his head as the words sink in fully. “Yes, Alpha.”

“Thank you.” Peter offers his nephew a smile before addressing Isaac once more. “Isaac, make sure Stiles suspects nothing. He’s clever, but I trust you to keep him occupied, keep his mind from wandering too much.”

Isaac nods enthusiastically, the scent of pride flowing from him at being given a task. “Sure, I can do that.”

Peter lets his hand drop from the boy’s neck, now content his Beta has calmed down. He turns his attention on Boyd and Erica. “Erica, Boyd, you both with me?” Peter knows their answer but needs to hear the affirmation all the same.

“Always,” Boyd is the first to speak.

“You know we’d both die for you,” Erica says, her demeanour confident and assured.

Peter chuckles at her expression, her eyebrows raised as if to say, _‘Really, you have to even ask?’_

“I appreciate the sentiment, Erica, but I hope it won’t come to that.”

“Just- Just be careful, Peter.” Derek moves forward to catch his attention. “I can’t lose what family I have left; I can’t lose another pack.”

Peter moves forward in an instant, pulling his nephew into a bone-crushing embrace. “I’m not going anywhere, pup.” Peter holds him tight, one hand stroking his nephew’s hair while the other rubs soothing circles on his back. “You’re stuck with me.” He leans back, his hands moving to cup Derek’s face, looking into his eyes to show his sincerity before looking around to them all. “You all are. I’ll see this through; I will slit his throat and burn him like the piece of shit he is. Once and for all, I swear to you.”

Derek nods, a small smile curling his lips at Peters promise. They both take a step back, and there’s a moment of silence before anyone speaks again.

“So, what’s the plan?” It’s Cora who asks, having inherited her uncle’s love of strategy when it comes to the art of war.

“Had I more time, I’m sure I would’ve come up with something spectacular, but right now all I know is that he has the upper hand,” Peter replies truthfully.

There’s no point in lying about the fact the Gerard is one step ahead of them.

“There’s _something_ though, some reason or motive for him making this easy for me to find him. I highly doubt once we’re in that warehouse that I’ll be able to walk right up to him and kill him. No, he’ll have a plan, ten years’ worth of a plan but until we’re there, I don’t know what that is.” Peter looks at them all apologetically, kicking himself for his impatience, not allowing himself to take the time to gather more information before running in headfirst.

“Well, guess we’ll find out soon enough. Should we make a move?” Cora bounces into view, making Peter smile at her in amusement.

Her equal measure of impatience make it even more apparent that they’re related—he can’t help his chest swelling with pride.

“Yes,” Peter agrees, before smirking and deciding to add a little bit of his light-hearted humour to the situation. “I just hope we’ll be back in time for dinner; I have a very expensive cut of steak in my fridge, wouldn’t want that to go to waste.”

After a collective eye roll and several huffs of exasperation—and one giggle, _thank you, Isaac_ —they all split up.

It’s time to prepare themselves for battle. 

~

After running through the outskirts of the city, they reach the address from the photograph within the hour.

Peter hadn’t wanted to risk drawing unnecessary attention to themselves, so they agreed it would be safer to arrive on foot. Being wolves, it’s easier for them to run as fast as their feet will carry them—it’s in their nature to be one with the woods and dirt. It’s only for the sake of seeming human that they use vehicles in their everyday lives—it’s less than agreeable, but needs must. 

The location is a derelict warehouse, which is far enough out the way of civilisation for no unexpected guests to wander into anything they aren’t supposed too, but still not as cordoned off as Peter would like. It’ll just make clean up a ball ache.

There’s no one around; the place looks deserted, just a single building on its own in the middle of nowhere—the perfect place for an ambush.

Peter silently instructs his Betas to keep quiet, to stay behind the cover of the trees to keep themselves out of view. He listens carefully, honing in on his surrounding to get a better picture of how many people to expect. He drowns out the rapid breaths from his wolves, the whistling of the wind among the leaves above him and the chirping of the birds flying overhead. 

“I can only detect one heartbeat inside the warehouse,” Peter whispers, knowing his pack will hear him.

“Why would he come here alone?” Erica asks, keeping her voice at a low rumble.

“I don’t know,” Peters answer is distracted, trying his best to focus his attention on that one beat as if it will tell him something.

He gets an uneasy shiver in his bones, something he can’t explain. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

As if on cue, the door to the warehouse flies open, the wood pounding against the brick as the very man Peter has come here to kill strolls into view. A look which harbours way too much smugness for Peters liking plastered over his face. “Come out, wolf,” Argents voice bellows across the empty yard, the sound travelling right through Peter like a dog whistle. “I know you’re here.”

Despite the protests of his pack, Peter stands up straight, sauntering out from the tree he’d been hunched behind.

The last thing he will do is show weakness, especially in front of this creature.

“You _summoned_ me?” he offers dryly.

Gerard’s beady eyes find him in an instant, pinning him to the spot with their murderous glint. “Hm yes, I feel like we’ve danced around this merry game for too long.” Peter can see him try for a menacing grin, but his hatred morphs his features into a hideous sneer. “Shall we?” The man stretches out his hand to indicate Peter following him into the building.

Peter is torn. He’s torn between walking right into whatever trap Gerard has set so he can get this over with one way or another, or staying back—waiting until they have more of a plan or at least an advantage. At the moment, all they are is one enraged Alpha werewolf, and three Betas up against what seems to be one human but, deep inside Peter’s gut, there’s this unshakable feeling of _wrongness_.

Before his mind has concluded, his feet are moving of their own accord—one step in front of the other until he reaches the door. It’s as if an invisible cord has tethered itself to him, guiding him across the threshold and into the abandoned warehouse.

Upon stepping into the building, Peter’s hit with a stale, musty scent, his nose wrinkling as the air around him penetrates his senses.

The door slams shut behind him, a sound loud enough to snap him out of his trance. His head twists to follow the bang, his eyes falling on the translucent force field now glimmering over the door, preventing him from leaving—or from anyone getting in. He can hear his Betas bang on the wood, fists and feet pounding at the building, shouting and growling for Peter, but to no avail.

It’s only then that Peter decides to look into the vast open space before him, noting the room’s emptiness apart from several metal cabinets lining the walls. It’s the moment his eyes have fully focused that he finally realises the cause of the uneasy feeling in his gut. Now of his own volition—probably not his wisest decision—his feet move his body into the centre of the room where he can now see clearly what is awaiting him.

Standing in a line behind Gerard are several armed lackeys, guns trained firmly onto him, copious spare ammo snaking over their shoulders and torsos. However, it’s the one figure sashaying her way into the middle of the room that’s the sole focus of Peters gaze.

“Marin Morrell.” The name rolls off Peters tongue, a long time since his lips have formed the words. “A clever trick, _disguising heartbeats_ , you learn that all by yourself?” Peter goads. “Or did you have to bathe in the blood of infants to come into that kind of power?”

The woman stops just a few feet away from Peter—still equal parts as bold and stupid as he remembers her it would seem. “Careful who you taunt, Hale, as you can see, you are quite at a disadvantage,” she snaps, gesturing behind her.

The action forces a smirk onto Peter’s face; he’s already getting under her skin. “Tell me, does one have to trade their soul for the knowledge in the dark arts or do you just come upon the knowledge in the general library?” Peter’s voice takes on an airy lilt as he proceeds to prod the bear.

 _That does it._

She lunges forward another step, her hand flickering with sparks of black flame. Peter doesn’t even flinch, and he can see just how much that grates on her hardened façade. He grins, too many teeth to be anything less than predatory as he basks in the fact that he’s already succeeded in getting her so riled up.

Peter has always taken pleasure in goading his enemies into showing him their weaknesses. He doesn’t wilt in the face of danger; he _thrives_ on it. He would stand in front of the devil himself and smirk until the demon showed Peter all his cards. He has a sick twisted sort of depravity lingering around inside him. He enjoys immensely when people start off with all the courage in the world but end up breaking under his menacingly calm exterior.

“Aw, were you hoping I’d cower at your little candle display?” Peter continues whimsically. “Sorry to disappoint, but I learned how to become one with my fears a long time ago.” He glares at her, knowing just how dangerous he looks and he doesn’t fail to notice the shiver that runs through her. 

She says nothing, just fails miserably at standing her ground against a man such as Peter.

“If you are quite done, Morrell?” Gerard’s voice breaks through the tension, Marin seemingly forgetting the hunter was even there as she startles. “Remember, we’re not here for your personal vendetta.”

Before her brother—Alan Deaton—had taken place as the Hale pack emissary all those years ago, she’d been training for the honour herself. However, in secret, she’d been making all sorts of dealings with unknown sources regarding the dark arts.

While Peter himself doesn’t much care for the stigma surrounding black magic—he believes everything in the supernatural world has its place and purpose—the use of such magic by a pack emissary, a druid no less, is _severely_ frowned upon. It’s still, to this day, something that’s punishable by death, but Talia—being the most influential Alpha at the time—had pleaded with The Council to spare the girl, asking for her to be granted mercy based on her inexperience and naive age of only fifteen.

Marin had sworn it was so she could help the Hale pack be the strongest and most powerful they could be, but she still committed a crime and one The Council of Druids felt couldn’t go unpunished.

Instead of death, she was banished. Not only was she stripped of her right to become a pack emissary, but she was also ultimately cast out from her family, and no druid within any community wanted anything to do with her.

It turned her bitter. Although she’d been spared death, she hadn’t seen it that way. A young girl of only fifteen being cast out from everything she’s ever known, shunned and hated.

Unfortunately, it had been Peter who found the evidence of her using the dark arts and well, she’s clearly held it against him ever since.

“I have to say, working with the enemy suits you, but you do know the Argents are against _all_ supernaturals, not just werewolves, right? As soon as you help him kill me, he’ll have no use for you,” Peter lowers his voice, enough to get her attention back to him but not enough for it to carry to Gerard’s ears.

“Well, working for him has done me well in the past,” she snaps back at his attempt at warning her; then her features turn gleeful. As if she knows something Peter doesn’t. “Oh, this is priceless, you haven’t figured it out, have you?” She throws her head back, a high pitched cackle erupting from her throat—had Peter not been trying his best to hide his apparent cluelessness of what she’s talking about, he may have come up with some quip about her looking like a witch.

“Do tell?” Peter keeps his tone calm, sighing long and put out as if this whole ordeal is boring him. He refuses to show anything that she could use against him.

However, the next words that leave her mouth throw that plan all to shit.

“Have you never stopped long enough to wonder how the Argents got a hold of enough mountain ash to keep a family of werewolves confined to their home long enough for it to burn down around them?”

Peter sees red. “How could you?” he snarls through his fangs as he stalks towards the woman who’s now stumbling to retreat.

Peter goes to lash out, but before he can get close enough to maim, his body connects with an invisible wall. He tries one more time to step forward but can’t advance any further. He looks up at Morrell and Argent, both of whom are staring back at him with a sick look of triumph.

Peter glances down at his feet, only then does he notice the half-circle of purple-y black powder drawn in front of him. He goes to take a step back, keeping his eyes to the ground so he can manoeuvre around it but he’s not quick enough. As soon as his heel makes contact with the floor, Morrell flicks her wrist, the circle sealing around him—trapping him.

His heart sinks as at that very moment the warehouse door flies open, the force field that had been holding it closed now diminished, and all three of his pack barge in.

Marin has successfully played him at his own game. Goaded him, seen his weakness and exploited it. Helped Gerard get him exactly where he wants him, and realisation suddenly hits Peter.

Gerard wants Peter to watch all over again as he brings down his pack. His _family_.

Peter falls to his knees as bloodcurdling screams ring loud in his eardrums, his eyes screw shut on impulse as he clasps his hands over his ears to try to drown out the sound—the action is futile. The smell of burnt flesh and wood clogs his throat, making it impossible to gulp for air.

He forces his eyes open only to be greeted with the twisted grin on Morrell’s face, both her hands reaching towards him, magic flowing from her fingertips.

Peter roars at her through his fangs, his voice breaking at the intensity, the pain forcing his eyes to water and he curses his pride for stopping him pleading. But he will not beg as they want him to; he will not give in.

He vaguely registers the blood trickling through his fingers, his eardrums bursting and healing over and over again.

“You took everything from me,” Morrell hisses, her voice somehow echoing loud and clear over the agony in his head. “Now, you’ll watch as he once again takes _everything_ from you.”

Peter notices Gerard’s lips move with a command as the man moves to stand at a safe distance, putting his soldiers between him and the wolves. Peter is unable to hear what the man is saying over the explosion in his head, but he doesn’t have to wait long to find out.

Bullets ricochet off the walls, empty shells bouncing across the concrete floor. All of Argent’s gunman open fire on his Betas as Peter watches on, powerless to stop it—unable to move as he once again watches his pack being slaughtered in front of him. They don’t go down easily, all of them dodging bullet after bullet, no doubt laced with the most potent form of wolfsbane.

Cora manages to advance on two, slicing their throats as if cutting through butter but ultimately she’s felled first. A bullet straight through her shoulder has her dropping onto her back, writhing in agony. 

Boyd and Erica work back to back to cut down the rest. They get down to the last three gunmen that stand between them and Gerard, but it doesn’t save them. Boyd jumps in front of a bullet meant for Erica, going down just as she turns to slice apart the one who shot her mate. Peter can see in her face the moment she shuts down, her eyes scanning the room as she notices Cora is no longer fighting.

Peter watches in slow motion as the bullet rips through her stomach, her temporary glitch in concentration having given Gerard the opportunity to shoot her with the handgun Peter hadn’t even seen him holding.

One shot, that’s all any of them get. Gerard wants them to suffer. Knows the poison coursing through their veins is enough to render them defeated, enough to give them no peace before death.

The noise in Peter’s head stops abruptly. It takes him a moment to register, having grown accustomed to the torment in his mind as he watches the bloody scene unfold. He removes his hands from his ears, and now, all he can hear are the agonising cries of his pack as they bleed out on the cold warehouse floor. 

“Watch, Hale. This is your punishment. This is what you deserve,” Morrell says all too happily, her hands dropping to her sides as her magic wanes. 

Peter clambers to his feet, trying with all his strength to push through the barrier in front of him, gritting his teeth to the point of breaking just to get to his pack. To kill everyone who is left. Fatigue hits him quicker than he ever thought possible, panting for breath as he stumbles back from the wall.

His eyes find Cora, the body closest to him, tears filling her eyes as her face twists ferociously. She says nothing, but Peter can see the demand in her eyes. _‘Kill them all.’_

Peter nods to his fallen niece, and she smiles back at him. He prays at this moment that she can hear his thoughts as clearly as he can hear hers. _‘Stay with me, and we’ll do it together.’_

“So, Mr Argent,” Marin’s voice brings his attention back to her, scowling as she addresses the visibly impatient man behind her. “Should we kill him now, or bring the boy here first? Make him watch as his mate bleeds out along with his pack.” She chuckles to herself as she turns back to Peter, his eyes flashing red at the mention of Stiles.

“You know what I want from him,” Gerard answers her as he advances, walking towards them both with an air of self-righteousness. “Make it happen.”

It’s only as the man gets closer does Peter finally understand. A smell that clues him into exactly what’s going on. It’s more than revenge that’s brought Gerard here—if it ever even was about that at all.

For Peter, his want for Argent’s blood is about justice for his family, it’s that deeply rooted love he bears for his pack that has driven him all these years to seek his revenge, but for Gerard, it’s just the principle. It’s the disrespect to his family name that urges him to get back at Peter, not the family itself.

Peter relishes in the power and status that came with his blood-soaked reprisal, but that comes second. His pack, his family, has always come first. He may be known as ruthless, as the one man among all to be feared and respected in equal measure but deep down he’d give all that up in a heartbeat if it kept everyone he loves safe.

Gerard only cares for one thing, and that’s himself. He’s so blinded by his need for power, his need to be on top that he’s opened himself bare. A man so desperate to save his own skin, so desperate for power that even the memory of his own family is forgotten in his haze is a man easily distracted. A man easily defeated. 

Peter fixes his posture to his usual sense of arrogance, a renewed spark of fight coursing through his bones. “I had wondered why now, why after ten years had you suddenly popped up out of the shadows and practically gift-wrapped yourself for me? Well, now it all makes sense.” A breathy laugh leaves his lips as his features once again turn cocky. “You’re dying, and you want the bite.”

Gerard stops in his movements, his face once again twisting into something uglier. “How do you know that?”

“I can _smell_ it on you.” A disgusted expression takes over Peters face, the scent now thick and clammy in his nostrils. “The decay, the _rot_ inside you that’s more than just your blackened heart. What is it? Cancer?”

“It doesn’t matter what it is; I won’t have to worry about dying a human’s death. Not when you’ll grant me the power to not only stay alive but to prevent anything else from killing me.”

“And why would I do that?” 

“To keep your mate alive.” Peter can see Gerard getting angrier by the second like a naughty child being told _no_.

Peter tries his best to keep himself calm, even when the threat to his mate makes his body twitch with the need to react. “What a glorious turn of events. You spend your whole miserable existence hunting down and murdering those who you now so desperately seek help from.” Peter allows himself to laugh, Gerard sneering at the noise. “That’s fairy-tale fodder right there.”

Morrell steps forward, intent on sticking her two cents in. “Half of your pack is lying on the floor almost dead, and the other half could be dead in less than an hour if you don’t cooperate, but still you insist on being conceited?”

“What can I say?” Peter shrugs. “I’m a creature of habit.”

Gerard growls, frustrated with Peters lack of wilting submission. “Enough talk, do it now.”

“What makes you think I’ll not just kill you, just rip out your artery and watch you bleed to death?”

“Because if you do, I will leave here right now and kill Stiles and I swear I won’t be merciful,” Marin’s voice is dripping with pure venom; her hatred blazing across her blackened irises.

“Merciful? Like Talia was to you, you mean?” Peter retorts. Seeing her visibly flinch at the words gives him a twisted satisfaction.

“Her idea of _mercy_ was worse than the death sentence they originally put upon my head,” Marin is spitting out her words now, but her voice is wavering as if even she’s beginning to doubt everything that’s coming out of her mouth.

“You killed almost our entire family, including the children, most of which were human might I add, to get back at her for speaking on your behalf against The Council... for saving your life?” Peter’s eyes clock onto the way the woman’s throat moves at the mention of the children, or maybe it’s the humans, either way, she swallows thickly, her heartbeat picking up pace at Peters every word.

Her silence is deafening, but Peter isn’t foolish enough to believe his truths are enough for her to suddenly grow a conscience. He doesn’t doubt for a second that she’ll do precisely what she threatens, and Peter just can’t take that chance on Stiles’ life. “Fine, I’ll do it.” He looks to Gerard as he speaks, the man momentarily showing his surprise at Peters quick obedience before he schools his features. 

“Just so you are aware, I will be killing you as soon as the bite takes.” Gerard thrusts his hand beyond the mountain ash barrier, enough so Peter could pull him in and slit his throat right now, but he won’t.

“I expected no less,” Peter deadpans before his eyes flicker to his surroundings once more.

By some unknown miracle, his pack have still not succumbed to their wounds, fighting frantically against the poison inside them for as long as they can. Peter knows he may only have minutes before the wolfsbane consumes them, so he better make it count.

He’ll thank the Goddess later for her divine intervention.

He grabs Argent by the wrist, taking a moment to feel the pulse race beneath his claws before he bites down, making sure to crunch through every single vein and tendon to heighten the pain.

Gerard screams out, the sound committing to Peters memory, something he can reply at a later time. “You son of a bitch,” he hisses as his other hand connects with the side of Peter’s head.

Peter unlatches his fangs from the hunter’s arm, the copper tang of his blood tainted by disease dripping from his maw.

Gerard backs up, his arm cradled to his chest to control the blood flow. He turns away, Morrell looking between Peter and Argent before following after the injured man—no doubt to kiss his wounds. The three remaining gunmen huddle around the pair in the middle of the warehouse, letting their guards down entirely as they turn their backs on the wolves.

Peter faintly catches the words leaving Gerard’s mouth between hisses of pain as Morrell patches him up. The man not even bothering to turn to look at Peter, knowing full well he can hear him. “I want the rest of them dead. Except for the boy, I think I’ll keep him. His pretty mouth is no doubt good for so much more than just screaming.”

Peter can feel his every nerve ending lighting up with fire. His skin tingling with the need to rip apart at the seams. He can feel his body changing, contorting and crunching into place, his limbs growing and twisting into something monstrous. The roar he lets out shakes the very foundations of the building, the roof crumbling at the vibrations.

The group of humans all swivel to face him, mouths open agape, heartbeats pounding like rabbits caught beneath a predators paw.

Peter, now no longer in his human form, is unable to voice his words, but one look at his niece and her eyes dance with an unyielding spirit.

She’s Peter’s strategist for a reason. 

“A word of advice,” her smug voice cuts through the silence, alerting Gerard and Morrell, who both turn to look at her sprawled out just behind them. “ _Never_ turn your back on a wolf.” Cora’s leg whips out, using whatever strength she has left to push the closest gunman towards Peter. The man stumbles, unable to catch his footing as he falls helplessly into the circle of mountain ash. Peter grabs him by the throat, using the human’s foot to push out the line of purple powder before breaking his neck like a toothpick.

At another time, Peter would’ve allowed himself a moment to marvel at the petrified expressions on the remaining humans, maybe even taken a picture, but at the moment, time is of the essence.

Peter lunges, his extended height making it easy for him to land in the middle of the wide-open space. He slices through the last two hunters with one swipe before their trembling fingers even have the chance to lift their guns. Morrell runs towards the door, but Erica’s hand reaches out to grab her ankle, tripping her before she can make it. Boyd roars in pain as he uses his legs to push down one of the heavy cabinets in front of the door, the Beta falling unconscious as the object hits the floor.

Peter advances on Gerard, the man shaking with fear at his looming presence. Peter is now the very definition of the beast he’s always accused him of being.

The man pulls out his handgun in one final futile attempt at gaining back the upper hand, but before his finger wraps around the trigger, Peter snatches it from his grasp, warping the metal in his paw with barely any effort. He backs him up to the wall, claws reaching out to circle his throat, applying enough pressure to crush his windpipe. The hunter scratches at Peter, kicking his legs as they leave the ground, but it’s no more than an annoyance to Peter’s strength.

With his rage now dictating him, he rips off one of Gerard’s arms—right at the socket. Too long has he dreamt of this moment just to give him a clean and painless death.

He relinquishes his hold on the human’s throat, only enough to hear the screams that rattle his body. “You will _never_ touch what’s mine again,” Peter slurs through fangs as he lets his body morph back to human.

“Pl-please let me live.”

Peter grins at the whimpers of desperation, at the pleading tears that burst from his eyes, at the pathetic begging he’s so longed to hear. “Hm,” Peter teases with a thoughtful hum, noticing the glint of hope in the hunter’s features before his face turns dark and dangerous. “No.” Peter tears off Gerard’s head, the blood bathing him as the rest of his worthless body slumps to the floor.

Peter’s body shakes with adrenaline before a sharp intake of breath focuses his attention to the other side of the room. He tilts the head towards Morrell, who is frozen on the spot, sobbing as Peter turns to advance on her.

“Save them.” Peter crouches over to spit the command right into her face.

“I-I can’t,” Morrell stutters, her body quivering in terror as Peter grabs her chin in a bruising grip.

Peter hears the tick in her heartbeat. “Lie.” He uses his leverage on her face to lift her to her feet.

She sends tiny shocks of electricity into his hand, but it just angers him more, his grip tightening as she realises her magic is useless. “Let me go, and I’ll save them.”

Peter looks into her eyes, assessing her features. “They live, and you go.” He releases his fingers, her face now marred with a hand-shaped mark.

“I have your word?”

Peter lets out a long breath, really struggling to keep himself from just slicing her open, but he needs her, it’s the quickest way for him to save his pack. “As Alpha of the Hale pack, you have my word.” 

She nods her head after a moment, knowing the word of an Alpha is as much gospel as any signed document.

One by one she heals them, a quick incantation and their wounds drain of the poison, their skin already beginning to knit back into place. They open their eyes, coming back to themselves slowly.

Peter breathes out a sigh of relief.

Morrell turns to him once she’s done, giving him a nod before twisting on her heel to leave, but before she can get to the door, Erica blocks her path.

She stumbles backwards, turning back towards Peter as her heart beats frantically. She now realises that her chances of leaving unscathed are non-existent. “You gave me your word,” she whimpers as she desperately tries to conjure her magic to her defence, failing miserably.

That’s the funny thing about magic, especially the dark stuff, it’s not always consistent, and it runs out if it hasn’t been given sufficient time to recharge.

 _Pity._

“Hm, I said, _‘they live, and you go’_. I didn’t specify _where_ you could go.” Peter strides forward until he’s once again towering over her. “But now that I think about it; the deepest depths of Hell seems rather fitting.” He doesn’t give her a chance to linger on his words, his claws plunging through the layers of flesh at her chest, fingers wrapping around her heart before ripping it out as it still beats.

He has a moment to appreciate the shock on her face before she falls limp and lifeless onto the cold concrete floor. He crushes the organ in his hand, enjoying the feeling of her warm blood trickling down his arm.

“Really, Uncle?” Cora asks from behind him, the eye roll evident in her voice.

Peter shrugs as he twists his body to face her, a smug smirk on his face. “I’m nothing if not poetic.”

She shakes her head and laughs fondly, and he can’t help smiling back.

His pack is alive, and the Argents are dead. Every last one of them. After all these years he’s finally done it—finally served his family the justice they deserve.

Peter looks to the sky, his eyes wet with unshed tears as he lets the ecstasy overwhelm him. He closes his eyes, his tears dripping from his lashes and down his cheeks as Talia’s face appears in the darkness, smiling at him. All her love and gratitude shining through that simple curl of her lips. He smiles back as he whispers into the silence. “This is for you. For all of you.”

He throws back his head, letting a triumphant howl echo into the Heavens. His Betas join in as they all relish in their shared celebration.

At long last, it’s over. His revenge is complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter's possessive and protective wolfy instincts can be to blame for most of his behaviour, but I just want to iterate very clearly in case it wasn't obvious, Peter is really not a 'good' guy. He's one teeny tiny tiptoe down from being a Mafia Boss, Hell, he's maybe actually worse. 
> 
> His morals and sense of right and wrong are seriously squinty—much like in the show. I will not apologise for it as its just the way I wanted to write him, I want him to be this unforgiving bad boy who may have a little bit of softness underneath, but ultimately he's still a cold-hearted murderer. I want you, as the readers, to lust over him as this hardened criminal who bathes in the blood of his foes, but I know some people may take more convincing than that. 
> 
> I've tried to keep it evident that to his pack and Stiles he's the best of both worlds, hot and evil but also soft and caring.
> 
> If it makes it any better, there's some honour among his gang of thieves, while he is a murderer and pretty much gets off on others cowering before him, that's about the extent of his evilness. He's a feared leader. Someone who is respected, envied and feared all in equal measure. I just wanted to put that in case anyone reads these few chapters and thinks; damn, he's a dick. Well, yes, but he's still my favourite.
> 
> Anyways, enough rambling, thank you so much for reading, more on its way soon!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had he been in a better state of mind and not currently crashing from his high, he'd have pondered a little on how exactly he managed to sneak into his very prestigious apartment building completely naked without being seen. But right now, he has other things on his mind.
> 
> Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a direct follow on from the last chapter, but I needed to split it into two so it wasn't so long. 
> 
> This is a lot shorter than the last, and to be honest, I ended it quite quickly. I probably could've written more or taken more time to build up to these chapters, but I just want to move on and get to Stiles and Peter interactions already. 
> 
> I really hope you are enjoying this, I will have the next chapter up soon, and we will get a bit further with the story. 
> 
> All mistakes are mine, as usual. 
> 
> Thank you!

Peter dresses in a rush, his mind not entirely up to the task of making himself look presentable. The adrenaline rush he'd felt earlier is slowly dissipating, making room for the instinctual need to see his mate.

The pack had made quick work of disposing the bodies, not bothering to call in any assistance for clean-up. They decided just to burn the place to the ground, leaving no trace of them ever being there. By the time anyone notices the smoke rising from the flames, the damage will be irreparable—no choice but to rebuild or leave the grass to regrow in its place.

Peter just prays Erica and Boyd have given the corpses the grave they deserve, the bottom of a murky bog is probably still too dignified, but he'll settle for it if he must. 

He'd given the order before leaving the warehouse that they're all to be at the club before opening, what they do in-between is their business, but he needs to keep up the appearance that everything is as usual. He knows it won't be long before the word gets out about the Argents finally getting their comeuppance, but Peter wants to keep it on the low for as long as possible, even if that's just for tonight. 

Had he been in a better state of mind and not currently crashing from his high, he'd have pondered a little on how exactly he managed to sneak into his very prestigious apartment building completely naked without being seen. But right now, he has other things on his mind.

_Stiles._

The first thing he'd done upon entering his suite was wash the blood of his body with a military thoroughness. Watching the vibrant red swirl down the drain isn't something new for him, and had been nothing more than a welcome distraction from his thoughts as he stood under the sprays to clean himself.

He now has thirty minutes to finish getting dressed and make his way to the club before the doors open. He doesn't want there to be speculation should he and half his Betas not show up, and while he thinks Derek and Isaac more than capable of looking after the place in his absence, it wouldn't be fair to put that responsibility on their shoulders.

That, and he _needs_ to see Stiles.

~

He's out the door of his apartment in less than fifteen minutes, not even bothering to look at himself in the mirror, his wolf driving him to the club on autopilot as he manages to work himself into a state of frenzy. His wolf is clawing at him to make sure the rest of his pack are safe, that his mate is safe.

He practically dumps his car in the middle of the car park, slamming his door and making his way into the club ignoring the calls of his pack behind him as they arrive shortly after him.

He moves through the club with all the elegance of a raging bull, his control slipping through his fingers with every step. "Where is he?" he growls in Derek's direction as he passes the bar, his nephew startling slightly at his Alphas unruly state.

Whether it's fear or sympathy that stops Derek from questioning his uncle, Peter doesn't care, he just notices the jerk of his Betas head in the direction of the staff room, and he's gone. 

The only thing on Peters mind is Stiles, his brain unable to focus on anything else. He has to make sure his mate is safe and well, his wolf howling to be near the boy; to scent him, to hold him, to hear his soft honeyed voice as he gasps out Peter's name.

"Uncle Peter," Cora shouts from somewhere behind him, but he doesn't pay any notice.

The sharpness in her tone only halts his steps for a moment before he brushes it off. "Peter, just wait a second... _please_." She steps into his view, a hand on his chest to stop him in his tracks, her eyes glowing blue as his flash red.

He snarls, a rumble vibrating low in his chest. " _Move_." Is all he can say in his haze, his mind too busy reeling off several variations of _matebreedclaim_ to be able to come up with something more intelligent.

"No, I will not _move_. You need to calm down. You can't go barging in there like a rampant bull," she scolds him, and Peter's growl turns just a little more threatening. "Have you looked at yourself? The poor boy will probably run away screaming if you come barrelling into his space looking like this."

Peter looks down at himself, but he can't see anything through the fiery tinge in his eyes, unable to think about anything other than-

" _Mate,"_ he slurs through his fangs, his brain too fogged with his wolfs instincts to manage a full sentence—to manage anything really.

Cora sighs, her features softening a little. "I know he's your mate, Uncle Peter but, you'll scare him if you don't calm down first and you'll hate yourself if you lose him because of your brashness."

Peter stares into his niece's eyes for a moment, letting their sincerity and her genuine concern ground him. He closes his eyes, his hands making tight fists at his side as he takes in deep, calming breaths.

"That's it. Just breathe." Her hands come up to cup his face, his body relaxing at the gesture. "I don't blame you for wanting to make sure he's safe, not after what happened today, but maybe keep the fangs and claws a secret a little while longer, hm?"

Peter huffs a laugh, his mind clearing as he gets himself under control. In all his years, he's never had to will away his wolf as much as he's had to do around this boy, and he's only known him a grand total of three days.

Mother Moon preserve him.

"I don't know what came over me," he whispers through a breath, a little embarrassed at letting his emotions control him once again.

He straightens himself out, wiping his hands over what he now notices as a less than elegant suit before running his fingers through his no doubt bedraggled looking hair.

"I do," Cora confirms softly. "All that pent up rage you've harboured over the last ten years won't have just left with Gerard's life-force. You've barely had time to process everything, especially after taking on that amazing shift—which you will totally have to show me again by the way." Peter snorts at Cora's rambling. She just smiles. "Your wolf will be vibrating out of its skin with energy, at a loss with what to do now. With the Argents out the way, all it wants now is Stiles, so instead of rage-"

"Lust," Peter interrupts, smirking at the subtle disgusted wrinkle in Cora's nose.

"Yeah, _that_."

Peter takes another moment to breathe, his hands coming up to clasp Cora's wrists to keep her comforting touch there for just a little while longer. "Have I ever told you, you're my favourite niece?" he whispers into her palm.

Cora rolls her eyes, pulling her hands from his face so she can playfully hit him on the shoulder. "I'm your _only_ niece, you jackass."

Peter's smirk widens. "Still my favourite." He feels his eyes crinkle with the force of the grin that splits his face as Cora shakes her head fondly, huffing out a laugh through her nose.

She steps aside, her head tilting towards the curtain. "Go get your man, you big sap."

He nods, giving her a mock salute before making his way towards the staff room. He's calmed down considerably, but as soon as the familiar scent hits him, he can't help quickening the pace of his steps.

Sue him; he wants his mate.

He opens the door, only realising when he sees Stiles startle slightly that he'd forgotten to knock.

Cora keeps to his side, probably there as a silent reassurance. He's grateful, especially when he sees the utterly gorgeous sight before him. All the tension leaves his body the very second Stiles' sweet amber eyes meet his. "Hello, little one."

"Hey," Stiles replies before pausing for a moment, taking in both his and Cora's appearance. "Are you guys okay?" he asks, and Peter can see the concern in his features—the questions whirling around in his head.

Peter just offers him a smile. "Absolutely fine."

Stiles assesses him a moment and Peter's glad he cannot hear the lie in his heartbeat, but maybe it isn't a full lie. He can't deny the weight he feels lifting from his weary frame at knowing Stiles is safe. "You look positively stunning," Peter changes the subject before the boy can question further.

Peter catches Stiles' cheeks blush at the compliment, but his mate turns away before his gaze can linger. Peter's tongue runs along the seam of his mouth, itching to follow that pink tinge all the way down the boy's body.

"Thanks."

Peter shakes his head to clear it, still not entirely confident that he'll not just jump the boy as soon as he gets close. He hates to admit it, but Cora was right, all that anger has turned into an ardent desire that he can feel pulsing through his very soul.

He takes a quick glance downwards to make sure his soul is the _only_ thing that's pulsing.

Next time he's alone with his niece, he might suggest she look into becoming a phycologist, she seems to have his every thought and feeling down to a fine art. 

"The doors are opening in ten, come find me when you're ready," Peter breaks the momentary silence before walking back out the door, forcing himself to back away from the beautiful boy he so badly wants to ravage on the club's floor.

He needs to give himself space to will away the unsavoury thoughts plaguing his mind—to calm down.

He's thankful the doors are still yet to open; if only so his weakness isn't exploited in front of the whole of San Francisco's wolf population. He'd like to keep his moniker of _'Alpha of all Alphas'_ , thank you very much—or is it God amongst wolves? He forgets.

He walks back over to the bar where the rest of his pack is waiting for him. He nods his head to Derek, a telepathic ask for forgiveness for his assholery earlier. His nephew returns it with a look of smug satisfaction. "So, he's finally dead?" Derek says after a beat, putting all his focus onto Peter as he waits for the answer.

Peter wishes his nephew could have been there, could have shared in the glory of tearing the hunter apart but he had to keep Isaac and Stiles safe, and he stands by that decision. 

"He's dead."

At Peter's confirmation, his nephew sends him a gratuitous nod.

"Not without difficulty, though." Peter's wolf riles up at the image of his pack almost dying, of them being so close to defeat that they almost didn't make it back. "He was this close to-" Peter grits out through his teeth but stops short as he hears a familiar heartbeat making its way towards them.

The pack all turn towards the boy who is gingerly walking towards the bar; Peter can smell his anxiety as all eyes pin him to the spot. "Hey, if you wanted to talk about me, all you had to do was tell me to piss off," Stiles jokes, and Peter can't help but smirk.

"You're not _that_ special, Stilinski," Erica scoffs, the words dripping with venom as she glares at the boy.

" _Erica,"_ Peter snaps, the Alpha in him commanding her to back off.

Erica holds his gaze for a second before reluctantly backing down. She twists her head ever so slightly in his direction, showing her submission before she turns on her heel and sashays towards the front door. Peter catches Boyd giving Stiles a sympathetic look before following her. Peter's confident that his most level-headed Beta will talk some sense into her.

"My apologies, sweetheart. Erica isn't in a humorous mood it would seem," Peter tries to offer an explanation; his eyes glaring holes into the back of his Betas head as she retreats. He knows she doesn't mean it, not really. She knows what Stiles means to Peter, knows now what he's willing to do to keep the boy safe, offering the same fierce protectiveness to him as he does his pack.

She knows herself what it's like to have a mate; she has expressed how much she wants that for her Alpha, but after seeing Gerard almost win, it's shaken her. It's shaken them all but under that hardened exterior, lies a girl who for most of her life had been cast aside as if she meant nothing, been used in the most unspeakable ways and still managed to survive. She's come a long way, and Peter couldn't be more proud of the fearless warrior she's become, but this fight has broken down her walls.

Much like Peter and Cora, she almost lost everything once again today, but even through all the pain and suffering they've endured, they at least had each other—and Derek too. She had no one up until Peter took her in, until she met Boyd—her mate. Peter has sheltered Isaac as best he can from the trauma he also went through, but Erica never wanted to be that helpless again. She fought tooth and nail with Peter to let her help him, not to keep her in the side-lines whimpering as she had before. 

Today the scum they'd been hunting for all these years had almost beat not only the love of her life, which Peter knows to be an ache that counters virtually all others. But he also nearly felled the one man she looks up to more than anyone, the one man who gave her a second chance at life, the man she sees as a father figure—her Alpha.

It's no surprise that it'll take her some extra time to rein in all the emotions, all Peter can do is hope she comes back to herself, and realise that Stiles isn't the enemy, isn't the reason for Peters almost demise. 

"It's fine," Stiles shrugs, but Peter notices that the accompanying smile falls short.

Peter moves forward to comfort the boy, his growing smell of anxiety and self-consciousness bitter on his tongue. However, another smell hits him almost as quickly. A familiar scent but at this moment, a very unwelcome one. He feels his nostrils flaring, his teeth and claws itching at his skin to extend. He has to force himself, with every single ounce of control he has left in him, not to flash his Alpha spark in front of his unknowing mate.

All the emotions he was trying to hold back are now flaring straight back up to the surface. "Isaac. My office. _Now,_ " he spits out before charging past Stiles, making his way towards a safe space before he does something he regrets.

He's faintly aware of Isaac fumbling to keep up with him as he storms through the hallway, but the jealous rage inside him blocks his ears from concentrating on any sound other than the battering _thump_ of his own beating heart.

He barges into his office, barely even registering as it shakes the wall behind him.

Isaac gently closes the door as he scurries over to stand in front of his Alpha. "I-I'm sorry, Alpha. I-I didn't-"

" _Be. Quiet,_ " Peter snarls, interrupting his Betas trembling confession.

Derek slams through the door the next second, coming to Isaacs defence. "Peter, I can explain." His nephew is quick to jump in, using his body as a shield between Peter and Isaac. 

" _Leave."_ Peter flashes his eyes at Derek, giving him no room to doubt that it's a command and not a request.

Derek's eyes flash back as he lifts his chin to offer his neck to his Alpha, his instincts forcing the submissive action. "If you hurt him, Peter, I will kill you myself."

It's an idle threat, but it still doesn't fail to raise his heckles even further. Peter growls at his nephew, deep and menacing. He stalks forward, getting right into Derek's space—towering over them both. "I'd like you to remember who you're talking to, who you _think_ you're threatening."

Derek swallows thickly, the disrespect he's showing his Alpha making his wolf want to cower. "I'm talking to my uncle first, _then_ my Alpha." Peter glares at Derek, his nephew not moving from his spot as he tries to placate him. "Peter I will beg if I have to, _please_... just let him explain."

Peter exhales sharply, his breath coming out in loud huffs through his nose.

After a moment, he nods his head, grinding his teeth—the pain anchoring him enough to let his nephew leave without incident. Derek nods back in appreciation, moving away from the blonde-haired boy to make his way back out the door. The Alphas command to _'leave'_ still ringing loud and clear, forcing his limbs to retreat.

The tense silence drags on for a few moments, Peter moves back to lean against his desk, his claws digging into the metal as he assesses the frightened Beta before him. His wolf is urging him to punish the boy, to show him what happens when you touch what belongs to the Alpha.

"I'm sorry."

His eyes snap up, and he sees for the first time the tears cascading down the boys flushed cheeks.

"H-he was panicking," Isaac continues, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was just trying to calm him down, I-I swear. I know he's _yours_ , Alpha."

Something in Peter's chest loosens, the fog in his mind clearing with every unbidden sob leaving his Beta. Every truthful word falling from his lips.

He blinks a few times, readjusting his vision, slowly coming back to reality.

What has he done?

"Isaac." The boy's name comes out as a whisper and Peter hates himself for being the cause of the terror in Isaac's eyes as they gaze up at him. "Oh, sweet boy, please forgive me. I'm so sorry." Peter's skin crawls with the realisation of how close he was to-

He rushes forward, pulling Isaac into his chest, wrapping his arms around him to soothe him. He runs his cheek over the boy's soft curls, one of his hands coming to the back of his head to move him into the crook of his neck—where his scent is most potent. His other hand rubs reassuring circles onto his back as the boy shakes in his arms. "I'd never hurt you. Gods, I'm not that man. I'm not _him."_

"I-I know."

Peter backs up a little, so he can hold his Betas face in his hands, urging him to look into his eyes to see his sincerity. "I swear to you, Isaac, I am not that sorry excuse of a man who you once called _father_."

Isaac nods, a sad smile twitching the corner of his mouth. His panic is draining away, but Peter wants to beat himself black and blue for ever even thinking about harming such an innocent soul. For not fighting harder against his instincts. For being too weak to control his wolf when all it wanted to do was rip apart anyone who dared touch his mate. 

Peter leans forward, placing a gentle kiss on the boys head, keeping his lips there for a moment before pulling away.

"You've had a hard day, Alpha."

Peter smiles at Isaac, but it fails to be anything more than sorrowful as his heart breaks a little at how small the boy's voice is. "You don't have to make excuses for me, Isaac. I was out of order, and it won't happen again."

He looks down at the floor between them, allowing a moment of quiet contemplation to pass before speaking again. "To the outside world, I'm a force to be reckoned with. A ruthless killer who takes pleasure in watching the life drain from his enemy's eyes. The Alpha who grants no mercy, who'll slit the throats of _anyone_ who even thinks of crossing him, or harming one of his own, and I'm content with that." He looks up once again to address his Beta, his eyes burning as he fights to hold back tears. "But, I don't want to be seen that way to the pack. Not to you. _Never_ to you."

Peter startles at Isaac's reaction, mainly because in one second he's staring at him from across the room and in the next, he's being crashed into. He barely has a chance to think before an armful of blonde-haired boy once again clings onto him.

As soon as the initial shock wears off, he sighs fondly. Peter relaxes into his Betas childlike embrace, letting his heart warm at the feeling of the boy's arms tightening around his waist as if Peter may fly away—as if he's afraid that he might let go.

Peter pulls him impossibly closer, wrapping his arms firmly around him, letting him know that his Alpha is going nowhere—letting him know that he's safe.

"I'd never think that—none of us do. You're everything we could ever have asked for in an Alpha," Isaac mumbles into Peter's chest, soft and content with no hint of a lie. "I love you, Peter, no matter what."

Peter lets his tears fall, too wound up in his emotions to care who sees him at his weakest. His earlier rage perishes completely as he allows the love and warmth from his Beta to consume him. "You too, pup. You too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want you all to know, Isaac is safe, and I won't make him suffer anymore, I promise. I just needed to use him to make Peter kind of wise up a little. So, Isaac being the pack's beacon of peace and calm has managed to melt the beasts cold, frozen heart.
> 
> Also, just to be clear, werewolves in my fics are very, very tactile. The scene between Peter and Isaac in this chapter is in no way sexual; it is just familial—even if it could be seen as intimate. I wish to be clear with that as I know in my writing it can sometimes seem like werewolf packs are a bit too familiar with each other, but that's just how I write them. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few more seconds, Peter breaks the fierce stare, and Stiles can’t help the lurching twinge of disappointment in his gut. The Alpha turns sharply on his heel, leaving the room, and Stiles finds himself yearningly following after the man with his eyes.
> 
> The noise of the room is what snaps him from his daze; he lets himself bask in the crowd’s applause, pushing aside his woes for the time being.
> 
> Peter clearly doesn’t want him, and Stiles will just have to move on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another chapter. I didn't want to keep you guys waiting too long when I already have the outline for the next two chapters planned out. 
> 
> I want to apologise in advance for the time jump; this is not something I usually like doing unless its an epilogue but I really needed Stiles to be out of school and working full time at the club. I didn't want to write several rambling chapters in between to get him to this stage; I'm lazy. I'm sorry if this bothers you, but needs must.
> 
> I will read through these at a later date and do some more editing, but right now, Grammarly has done it's best. I might wait until I finish this fic entirely before going through the whole thing and fixing my slapdash attempt at editing—I promise I do try my best so that it's not too unreadable. 
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support, it's made this so much more enjoyable.

The months running up to Stiles’ graduation pass by him in a flash.

Stiles had never put much faith in the old saying _'time flies when you’re having fun’_ , but it would seem there may actually be some truth to those words after all. Granted, he still spent the last few months juggling school, exams and his new job but he’s felt less burdened in that short time than he had in the full four years at college.

The relief of actually being able to afford to live has taken a lot more weight off his shoulder than he’d initially anticipated. He hadn’t realised just how much that one little detail in his life had played such a significant factor in his stress. Sure, the studying and classes hadn’t just magically gotten easier after taking the job, but with one less thing to worry about, he’d been able at least to enjoy the last few months of his course.

One thing he hadn’t been able to do before—which he’s been able to in the last few months—is take a little time for himself. While he had so much more spare time when working at the coffee shop, he’d had no money to do anything. He’d spent every minute of every hour at school or studying, and it just put even more strain on his already fragile mental health. But since working at the club, he’s had structure. A job that gave him a healthy income, plenty of hours to keep him occupied, free time to do what he wants plus enough time to study—the best of both worlds.

The other thing that’s a welcome addition to his life is that he has friends.

Friends have always been hard for Stiles to come by. Sure, there’s Scottie, who’s more like a brother than a best friend, but apart from that, Stiles has always been the gangly, geeky, unpopular kid to everyone else. He’s the kid who’s too hyperactive and just a little too strange for anyone to want to approach him with the intent of friendship. Though, since working at the club, he’s had more time to get to know the people who work alongside him and they don’t seem entirely put off by his awkwardness.

Stiles won’t forget how rocky it’d been at the start; how he convinced himself that they’d never get along. He thought they all passed their judgement as soon as he’d walked through the club’s doors the first night and decided on the spot not to put aside their noticeable differences to get to know him better.

How wrong he was. 

Stiles can confidently claim to be more surprised than anyone that he and Cora have really clicked. Especially after the whole _who-are-you-and-what-do-you-want-with-my-family_ incident. That’s now all firmly tucked away in the past as she seems to have warmed to him, going as far as inviting him for lunch and calling him at the most random times of the day to see if he’s behaving himself. It’s a weird relationship they have, but he isn’t complaining.

The whole thing with Isaac and Peter hasn’t been brought up. It pretty much just got swept under the rug, and no one has made it uncomfortable—quite the opposite actually. Peter hasn’t killed Stiles yet for even bothering to touch what’s his, Hell, the guy had just gone straight back to acting like nothing’s amiss, bantering and casually flirting with Stiles at every opportunity. Stiles envies the guys ability to act as if nothing happened ’cause Stiles had spent the first few weeks after that whole mess trying his best not to dig himself further into a hole. But, now, several months later, he’s finally managed to relax and push it to the back of his head. He’s concluded that if he was fated to be murdered in a dark alley, his body coated in concrete and thrown in the bay, it would’ve happened long before now.

Isaac has gradually come to be a little beacon of sunshine towards Stiles. The boy hasn’t made any move to explain anything or make it weird, has actually never spoken to Stiles regarding anything to do with his love life, so Stiles is content with just letting it go. He has to admit, he appreciates it, even if it’s not for his benefit. He’d rather not have his nose rubbed in it, no matter how unintentionally.

It had taken Isaac a little while to come out of his shell after the debacle. Stiles still worries from time to time when he notices how the boy just closes himself off seemingly out of nowhere, but he’s progressively gotten more and more confident with talking to Stiles, so he doesn’t dwell too much on it. Often the boy follows him around babbling about something or other or asks Stiles lots of questions about his life—just enjoying his company really. He deduces that Isaac might get lonely and just wants someone to talk to outside of pack and family. Maybe joining their ranks hasn’t only benefitted Stiles with regards to friendship but Isaac too.

There are still the odd times when Stiles thinks Isaac is about to reach out and touch him but instantly thinks better of the idea. Stiles has always been a handsy guy; it’s not necessarily flirty; he just finds comfort in physical contact, so it’s been difficult. Especially since he and Isaac are now getting on like a house on fire, but he values his life, so he accepts the unspoken _no touchy_ rule.

Erica had apologised the following day for her rude comment, she told him it was due to it being her _’time of the month’,_ and well, Stiles really hadn’t needed to know that but thanks anyway.

She seems to show her fondness for others through pranks and mild insults. Boyd confided that if Erica isn’t taking the piss out of you, then it’s a clear sign that she hates you. She doesn’t see the point in dishing out taunts and slander to those she doesn’t like; she just ignores them or socks them in the jaw. She only banters with those she likes, and that’s good enough for Stiles.

Stiles likes Boyd—he _listens_. It’s strange, but this large, hulking bodyguard who says maybe two or three words a day and mainly communicates through telepathy, is seriously good with paying attention to his qualms and bitching. For all Stiles loves a good conversation—with him being able to talk enough for two people—he likes Boyd’s quiet stoicism. He knows the man just uses the guise of being completely shut off from the world to his advantage, a somewhat silent assassin but Stiles doesn’t mind it. Something about the man just radiates safety and loyalty, something Stiles can appreciate.

Derek is proving a bit harder to crack. Whiles everyone else has fallen helplessly for the Stilinski charm; he’s still a bit distant. Sure, he’s pleasant enough, hasn’t threatened him again since the warning about Isaac and Peter, but Stiles wants to see him laugh. He just wants to have a proper conversation with the guy.

Boyd listens to Stiles’ rambling with an air of fond exasperation. He smiles and never tells him to shut up or go away and while Derek doesn’t either there’s just something about him that gives Stiles the impression that he hates dialogue of any kind. Boyd doesn’t say much, but Derek just takes the biscuit. He communicates using grunts and eyebrow movements. He glares a lot too, which is just unnerving. Stiles can’t help but think that’s why he’s never seen the man with a girlfriend.

Boyd talks when he needs to—when the conversation requires a response—but getting Derek to talk is like getting blood from a stone. Stiles tries to include him, and Derek doesn’t avoid him either, but he’ll just hum a _‘yes’_ or grunt a _‘no’,_ and that’s about it.

Stiles would love to be a fly on the wall whenever the guy goes on a date; the atmosphere must be riveting.

Anyhow, Stiles will not give up. He’ll get the man to like him; he’ll have the man talking in full sentences eventually. He just knows it—no one can resist his charm for long.

The day after Stiles received his degree, he’d been given his notice to move out of the student housing. He had expected it, but it was still a bit of a pain. He’d been given a months’ notice to find somewhere and be gone.

To be honest, he’d been looking for apartments close to the club ever since getting the gig there; he just hadn’t done anything about it. He wanted to stay put for as long as possible, so he didn’t have to upheave his life in the middle of his exams. So, when the letter had come, he’d panicked a little—worrying that a month wouldn’t be enough time for him to find somewhere decent before being kicked out.

As luck would have it though, Peter was more than willing to jump to his rescue. The guy spoke to a few of his contacts and wrangled together several places for him to choose from in no time. Stiles had marvelled at the efficiency of the man before realising that being an Alpha probably meant having a lot of people who owe him favours for one reason or another. A lot of resources at his disposal. Not that Stiles is complaining, not one bit, he just doesn’t like to overthink on the implications.

Peter had told him something along the lines of _‘no employee of mine will live in a hovel’_ when Stiles had squawked at the extravagance of the homes Peter found for him. Stiles couldn’t help but laugh at the pretentious asshole, but secretly, he kinda loved it.

After _a lot_ of bickering, Stiles finally settled on a one-bed apartment five minutes’ drive from the club. It’s still a little showy—to appease Peters snobbery—but manageable and a perfect size for his two boxes of belongings. The walk-in wardrobe, balcony and breakfast bar had sold it for Stiles, not that he’ll ever admit it to Peter, the guy would be insufferable.

The best part of the whole thing though was as soon as Stiles viewed the property, Peter, the God amongst men, pulled some serious strings and he was moved in the very next day.

The pack helped him move, not that they needed to help him with much. All he had to his name were two boxes of personal effects, a TV, a couch and a bed. Thankfully though, now that he’s been bumped up to full-time hours, he doesn’t doubt that he’ll be able to furnish the place in no time.

Peter insisted he go out the day he’d moved in—which was two weeks ago now—to get what he needed, handing over his credit card for the expenses like it was no big deal, but Stiles had refused. He’s content with buying what he needs as the week’s pass, building his life step by step as ordinary people do. He knows it won’t take long, he doesn’t really need much, and he’s never been a particularly material person. A few units here and there wouldn’t hurt, a bookcase, maybe he’ll push the boat out and get a coffee table too. Erica made him swear to call her whenever he decides to go out shopping as she’s really into interior decorating and is willing to offer up her wisdom in the matter—Stiles reluctantly agreed.

He stands in the middle of his half-empty apartment, taking a glance around at all the space he has no doubt Erica is dying to fill. He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. He couldn’t have ever imagined that the tiny little advertisement Scottie pointed out to him all those months ago would lead him to have all this. His dream job, friends, an apartment that costs a small fortune and enough disposable income to treat himself whenever he wants.

His only regret is that his mom isn’t here to see his success.

He shakes away those thoughts; for now, it’s almost time for him to leave and make his way to the club. It’s Saturday night, their busiest night, so he wants to arrive a little early to prepare himself. Peters gotten used to him hanging around before and after his designated hours. Now that he doesn’t have schooling to think about, he enjoys helping out or just spending more time with the pack before going home.

He’d petitioned Peter to let him work even more hours ’cause of how he feels being on stage—the adrenaline rush he gets leaving him buzzing with excitement for days after. But Peter had just smiled that dashingly handsome smile and said even the most prestigious superstars need rest from time to time or their voices will suffer. Stiles has to agree with him on that, without his voice, he wouldn’t be much use after all, but he still can’t help longing for that tingle in his belly every night.

Still, Peter expressed that he’s more than welcome to be at the club on his days off or in his spare time, that he’ll never chase him away from the place especially now that he’s noticed them all getting along so well. Stiles thinks the man may just end up regretting his words, ’cause he’s totally going to take advantage of that offer.

~

Stiles arrives at the club an hour before opening. If he gets asked why, he’ll just say he needs to warm up a bit before starting—which isn’t a total lie but really, he just wants to feel all those warm fuzzy feelings he gets being surrounded by the pack.

He greets Erica and Boyd as he passes, both of them smiling and offering up their greetings in return. Neither of them says anything about him being early; he guesses it’s just become that much of an expected occurrence.

Isaac is sitting at the bar, talking animatedly to Derek, so Stiles strolls up beside him. “Hey, guys,” he offers with an awkward wave.

The blonde-haired boy swivels around on his seat, a blinding grin across his face. “Stiles! Hi.”

Derek just nods to him wordlessly as usual.

“You guys good?” Stiles asks as he slides onto the stool beside Isaac.

“Yeah, we were just talking about you actually,” Isaac chirps as he swirls the straw from his drink around with his tongue.

“ _Oh?”_ Stiles tries to act unaffected. “Nothing bad, I hope?”

Isaac shakes his head. “No, it was just about your performance yesterday, it was amazing. My favourite so far.”

Stiles nods along, to be honest, it had been one of his favourite nights so far too. Nothing extraordinary happened, it went on like every other night, but he’d decided to dedicate it solely to his mother. He’d sang the songs she used to play to him, and the crowd had absolutely loved it. “Yeah, all the songs were ones my mom used to sing, that last one was her favourite,” he admits with a hint of longing, and Isaac smiles warmly at him.

Derek pushes a glass of coke towards him without pre-empting, and Stiles offers his thanks.

Isaac finishes his drink with a childish slurp before standing. Stiles laughs, shaking his head as he wordlessly follows when he walks away. He knows where the boy is going; it’s become a somewhat ritual for them to chat in the staffroom before Stiles goes onstage. Isaac sometimes even helps him get ready for the evening too.

“So, what have you got planned tonight?” Isaac asks as he holds the door open. They both make their way over to sit on the bench beside the wall—their usual spot.

“Spoilers.” Stiles winks at him, and Isaac pouts.

The boy seems to be a little more excitable today; Stiles can’t explain it. His whole demeanour is so much more relaxed than usual, to such an extent that Isaac trusted Stiles to walk behind him, something Stiles noticed early on that Isaac was never comfortable with. It’s like a switch has been flicked and he’s no longer the shy boy Stiles knew in the beginning. It’s refreshing.

“You seem in a really good mood today, has something happened?”

“Not particularly.” Isaac shrugs, but his face lights up with a soft smile after something seemingly pops into his head. “Well, it is the anniversary of the day Derek and I got together, but-”

“Whaa,” Stiles chokes on the mouthful of soda he’d sipped just before Isaac started talking again, coughing a few times to clear his airways. Some of the fizzy liquid dribbles out of his mouth, he _just_ about manages to catch the majority of it in his glass, but the rest he has to wipe off his chin before looking at the boy with wide-eyed confusion.

“Huh?” Isaac squints at Stiles, brows furrowed in concern for his spluttering fit.

“Wh-when did you and Derek happen?” Stiles flails a little as he tries to convey his utter shock.

“Four years ago today,” Isaac answers innocently, completely unaware that he’s just dropped a major bomb on him.

“How the- how did I not know this?” Isaac doesn’t say anything in reply, doesn’t get the chance because right at that moment the realisation hits Stiles like a ton of bricks. “Holy fuck,” he exclaims. “That’s why he- oh my God, I’m such a tit.”

Derek hadn’t threatened him because of Isaac being Peter’s; he’d threatened Stiles because Isaac is _his_.

Several months with these people and his dumbass is somehow only now finding this out.

That means Peter had been angry for the sake of his nephew, thinking Isaac was what? Cheating on him? Bit of an overreaction if you ask him, considering it shouldn’t be any of his business, but then he guesses with their instincts and Derek being one of Peters only remaining family and all, it maybe makes sense.

Stiles just can’t believe after all the times he and Isaac have spoken that it’s never been brought up. “Why did neither of you say anything? I mean, I get Derek not saying anything ’cause he doesn’t actually speak, but _you_... I’ve been here months, and I had no idea. Hell, I know I’m a little oblivious but Christ on a bike.”

Isaac shakes his head fondly, huffing at Stiles’ melodrama. “I guess we just thought you knew and didn’t feel the need to bring it up.”

“Nuh-uh, I knew nothing,” Stiles shakes his head until his cheeks wobble. “I mean, Boyd and Erica are _obviously_ together, I’m half surprised I haven’t walked in on them fucking yet... but you two, I never would’ve guessed.”

Even Cora hadn’t said anything, and she’s the biggest gossip Stiles has ever met.

“We don’t really do the whole PDA thing,” Isaac admits with an air of nonchalance. “Not as much as those two anyways, but, I still thought it was obvious.”

“Nope... I thought you were with-” Stiles stops himself quickly, his expression faltering as he looks at Isaacs questioning face.

He’s not sure if he wants to bring up his whole thought process—how he’d thought Isaac was with Peter. He’s not sure if the entire notion is absurd now that he knows he’s been living in a complete misunderstanding these last few months. 

“With who?” Isaac prompts when Stiles doesn’t continue.

Stiles drops his head, whispering his answer into his chest, all the words leaving his mouth in a rush. “ _IthoughtyouwerewithPeter.”_

After a few second of tense silence, Stiles’ head snaps up at the sound of Isaacs full-blown belly laugh. A smile creeps across his face at the sight of the beta rocking back and forth, holding his ribs in apparent amusement. “Stiles, what the Hell?” he manages to squeak through bouts of mirth.

“I’m glad my idiocy is so amusing,” Stiles deadpans, but he can’t keep a straight face.

“Wow, you _really_ are oblivious.” The boy wipes the tears from his cheeks. “What made you think that?”

Stiles freezes. He can’t tell him the real reason. He can’t say that it’s because he knows how possessive werewolves are of what’s theirs. That when Peter smelled Isaac on him, he thought the reason for his outburst was the urge to rip Stiles apart for touching his boyfriend. Nope, he can’t say that.

Stiles just shrugs. “You two just seem close.”

“Peter’s like a father to me. I mean, we did have a sort of contract before, but that wasn’t-”

“What?!” Stiles’ voice goes up a few octaves, and Isaac visibly winces. “Hell, Isaac, you really are dropping all the bombs on me today.” Stiles turns his body fully, crossing his legs under himself, shifting a little on the bench until he looks like the eager student waiting on storytime. “Sorry, just getting comfy. Please continue.”

Isaac huffs, shaking his head in faux exasperation before he takes up the same position, facing him head-on now. Stiles waits patiently for Isaac to begin; however, nothing could really have prepared him for what he’s told.

The wolf takes a deep breath, letting the tension leave his body on the next exhale before proceeding to relay how Peter had saved him from his abusive father.

Stiles hadn’t been expecting it, and his face must show his shock as Isaac looks at him with something like guilt on his face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

Stiles quickly comes back online, interrupting the apology before the boy works himself into feeling guilty for opening up. “No, no, don’t apologise. I just wasn’t- I’m sorry.” Stiles goes to put his hand on the wolf’s shoulder as reassurance but thinks better of the idea; he smiles warmly at him instead. “Please, tell me anything you feel comfortable with.” Stiles makes sure his face shows his sincerity. “I’m listening.”

Isaac gives him a small smile back, it’s a little sadder than earlier, but he continues. 

The boy doesn’t delve too far into the details, but Stiles can see the pain in his eyes, the _trauma_. He just sits quietly and listens, let’s the beta open up to him in his own time—lets him say as little or as much as he wants. He doesn’t interrupt or pry, he’s just there as silent support, as a friend.

To anyone else, this may have been a little overwhelming. Stiles and Isaac have known each other for a little over six months and all of a sudden Isaac is sitting here telling him his biggest secret. To many people that may seem like too much too soon, but not to Stiles. From what he hears now, Isaac has been through Hell in his short life, and it isn’t surprising to understand that the boy struggles to trust. So, for him to be bearing his heart and soul, trusting him with something as colossal as this, means the absolute world to Stiles. No matter the length of time they’ve known each other, this is something to be cherished—something to be grateful for.

Stiles finally understands Isaac’s timid nature. How he walks around with his eyes to the floor and shoulders slumped forward—it’s all because of his bastard of a father. Stiles is confident if he ever saw the man, he’d not think twice about running him over with his Jeep then reversing just for good measure.

He can see the misery and torment in the betas eyes, in his expression as he talks, how he has to carry all this emotional baggage around wherever he goes.

Isaac assures him that he’s a million times better now than he was back then—back when Peter had found him and saved him from that wretch of a man. He says that the fact he’s even sitting here with Stiles and talking to him, just talking, is something he’d _never_ have had the courage to do back then. He admits that actually managing to get up every day and leave his front door has been his biggest triumph. To be able to work in a busy club, with people all around him day in day out, without breaking down and huddling into a corner is one of his greatest achievements.

Stiles feels pride well up in his chest on the boy’s behalf. He can’t help feel hatred towards the man who’d caused such suffering to one so sweet and gentle. To have hurt this poor boy to such a point that he could barely even speak a few words at a time, just makes him want to tear the man apart. But, to know now how far Isaac has progressed since those days, he feels his heart swell.  
  
Isaac mentions more than once how much of his development he owes to Peter. If it hadn’t been for him, he’s under no illusion that he would’ve been dead long before now. If Peter hadn’t rescued him a little over four years ago, he thinks his father would’ve eventually killed him.  
  
Peter worked tirelessly to get Isaac back on his feet. Had sheltered him in his apartment, away from the outside world, away from even the others at the beginning as he knew that’s what Isaac needed to heal. He’d kept him safe. Never took advantage of his weakened state, had never pushed for too much too quickly. He’d been patient and kind, and everything Isaac needed.

With Peter’s help, he’d gotten to a point where he could bear to be touched again without shivering in fear. Could be around loud noises without running and hiding. Could once again have fun and do the things he’d always wanted to do without being punished for even daring to smile.  
  
Tears fall from Stiles’ eyes more than once through Isaacs’s story, he can’t help it, but he doesn’t make this about him, he just quietly shows his emotion and lets Isaac unburden himself. He notices the boy doesn’t cry himself, his voice wavers—is small and a little scratchy—but he doesn’t cry. Stiles wonders if that’s because he has no tears left or he’s finally at the point where talking about it doesn’t affect him as much as it once had. Stiles hope’s it’s the latter, while no one, no matter how strong, could ever truly get over something like this he hopes that Isaac is at least at a point where he can think about it without it crippling him.  
  
Isaac explains that he’d been intrigued about Peter’s job, that he’d owned a club in New York—where Peter found him—before coming to San Francisco. That’s when Peter told him that what he does may actually help him. That he’s helped a lot of clients who’d suffered from trauma, but he wouldn’t do anything until Isaac was ready. Until he was at a point where Peter was confident he could consent properly without thinking he’d be punished if he didn’t say yes.  
  
Isaac had accepted. He wanted to try anything he could to get better but was too afraid to speak to a therapist, couldn’t leave Peters apartment and wasn’t comfortable with some stranger in the space he finally felt safe in. So, he’d asked Peter to help him.

Peter used his copious amounts of experience as a dominant to assist his recovery, had used safe and healthy control methods to coax Isaac out of his shell and help him build a positive attitude towards an authoritative figure.

Stiles can’t help the flicker of jealousy; he doesn’t really know why because he has no right, but Isaac must notice Stiles’ momentary lapse. He’s quick to tell Stiles that whatever happened between them never bordered anywhere close to sexual. At Stiles’ confusion, he explains that Peter had just given him rules to follow and goals to reach. He would get praised for completing them or punished for not, but it was a slow process, and Peter would never push him too far. He knew his limits, and it was all about getting him to a point where he could give up his control willingly, where he could trust someone to take care of him—like no one ever had before. Nothing they did was ever arousing, Isaac never took any clothes off, and none of the praise or punishment was served with sex in mind. 

Peter’s only goal was to aid Isaacs healing and would never take anything he was not willing to give. They got close, but it never went past friendship.

Peter kept him calm when Isaac’s emotions were getting too much for him to handle. When his mind would wander to the past, or when he’d wake up all those nights from the nightmares that plagued him. Peter would wipe his tears, hold him close and whisper all the things no one had ever told him before. That he’s good, that he’s useful and helpful... that he’s worth it. Peter gave him the confidence to believe in himself, to believe those words he spoke.  
  
He’d gotten Isaac to the point where he actually wanted to leave the house, wanted to run little errands on his own. It had taken him a long time before he could go outside and come back wholly unaffected, but he hadn’t given up. Peter never got fed up with him, never told him he could do better, never told him he was pathetic. He’d just smile, and tell him how proud he was of even his smallest achievements.  
  
Eventually, Peter asked if he was ready to meet the rest of his family. Isaac had been nervous but wanted to try to let other people into his life.

That’s when he met Derek.  
  
Stiles smiles at the dreamy look Isaac gets when he talks about the man, how his eyes glisten, and his voice takes on this soft doting lilt when he tells him about the day they met. Apparently, Derek had almost tripped over himself, trying to make Isaac feel at home. Stiles can’t imagine the big lump ever acting like a head over heels in love teenager, but with how Isaac describes it, he has no choice but to believe it. He can see how much Isaac cares for the man, how much love he has for him, and can tell from Isaac’s words how much Derek returns that love.

Derek and Isaac started a relationship not long after. Peter took a step back, content his nephew could give Isaac precisely what he needed from then on—could give him all the things Peter never could. Peter helped get him to that point, but at that moment, he knew Derek would be the one to add the new chapters to Isaac’s life—the better chapters.

Stiles wipes the tears from his eyes, a gentle smile blooming across his splotchy face. He thanks Isaac for confiding in him, for trusting him enough to tell him his story.  
  
“It- It wasn’t too much?” Isaac queries, unsure. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I just- I trust you, Stiles. I-I think of you as a friend?” The boy rubs the back of his neck nervously, his tone sounding a little worried.

At that moment, Stiles says an official _screw it_ to the whole _‘no touchy’_ thing. 

_Possessive werewolves be damned._

Stiles leans forward, intent on pulling the boy in for an embrace but stops short. “Can I hug you?”  
  
Isaac nods gleefully, and Stiles wraps his arms around him tightly. “I see you as a friend too,” he whispers, not wanting to hurt the boy’s ears with how close they are. “And no, you didn’t overwhelm me, I’m just very emotional.” He squeezes a little tighter, bringing one of his hands up to stroke the back of Isaac’s head, fingers gliding through the soft curls. “I’m proud of you, how far you’ve come and I will always be here to listen to anything you want to tell me. You’re stuck with me now.”  
  
Isaac chuckles into his neck before they both pull apart. Stiles sniffles, the last of his tears drying up as he straightens himself out.

“That means a lot.” Isaac offers him a grateful twist of his lips. “I still have bad days, I think I always will, and I’m still not great with people shouting, but I’ll get there. I know I will.”  
  
“I know you will too.”

Isaac’s face lights up, and Stiles can’t help mirror the expression. Over the last few months, Stiles has actually seen a change in Isaac, but he hadn’t really thought too much on it until now—until Isaac explained how he used to be.

Isaac talks to him a lot more now than he did in the beginning and he looks into Stiles’ eyes now when he talks instead of at the floor. Its little things but to someone like Isaac they’re significant, and Stiles feels stupid for not noticing it sooner, for not being quick enough to realise.  
  
“You alright?” Isaac asks and only then does Stiles notice he spaced out.  
  
“Yeah, fine.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck, letting a comfortable silence fill the room before speaking again. “Erm, so you and Derek...” Stiles trails off, a question on the tip of his tongue but unsure how to say it.  
  
Isaac hums for Stiles to continue so he decides just to come out and ask, Isaac can tell him to mind his own business if he wants too. “He’s your _dominant_ then?”  
  
The beta nods, and it’s not mocking in any way, just an acceptance of Stiles’ curiousness. “Well, we use the terms _‘Daddy’_ and _‘Baby Boy’_ , but yeah, pretty much.”  
  
Stiles can feel the blush rising on his cheeks, can feel his lips parting and closing as he tries to find words. He’s not sure if he wants to ask for more details or-

Isaac laughs at his reaction. “Not the answer you expected?”  
  
“I can’t say that it was, no, but hey, that’s cool. I’m still getting over the fact Derek likes guys to be honest, to now find out he likes to be called _Daddy_ , well, that just threw me for a loop, I can’t lie.”  
  
Isaac chuckles, and it turns a little mischievous. “Oh, he _definitely_ likes guys. Like, _a lot_.” Isaac wiggles his eyebrows to add to his point, and even rolls his bottom lip between his teeth to really set the scene.  
  
“Yep, I got it. Thanks for that.”  
  
Isaac giggles and it’s cute and coy and yeah okay Stiles can totally see him as a Baby Boy.

Stiles still isn’t completely studied out with the whole BDSM thing, he’s researched it until the cows came home, written down some things that interested him and their meanings but he’s still barely an amateur in every sense of the word. He’d looked at the whole _‘Daddy’_ and _‘Baby’_ thing as he noted it came up quite a lot in porn but had decided quickly that it wasn’t for him. However, he can see from the descriptions he’d found on the internet that Isaac would fit into the role _perfectly_.

Derek though has surprised him, but maybe behind closed doors, he’s the perfect Daddy, who knows and Stiles is definitely not thinking about that right now.

 _Nope, not at all._  
  
“Have you tried it?”

Stiles really needs to stop spacing out; every time Isaac’s voice snaps him from his thoughts; his heart jumps a little in his chest. “What BDSM? No, I haven’t. I’m not sure it’s for me.” Stiles shrugs, and it’s not a lie. “I’ve looked it up and everything as I’m _inquisitive_ by nature, but I’m not sure, really.”  
  
“It might help with your ADHD, well, it won’t _cure_ it, but it might give you some peace at least.”  
  
Stiles can’t remember actually mentioning his ADHD, _is it that obvious?_  
  
He must be showing his confusion on his face because Isaac elaborates. “You’re very twitchy, get distracted easily, and sometimes you talk really fast and change topics quicker than the wind changes,” Isaac smirks, but it’s not unkind. “It’s something I like about you.”  
  
“You... _like_ my ADHD?”  
  
“Not like that, not the actual _ADHD_.” Isaac tuts at him as if it’s Stiles not making sense here. “I just think it gives you character, makes you who you are and its... endearing.”

Isaac looks up at him through his eyelashes, shrugging casually and Stiles kind of understands his explanation. No one’s ever said that they find his inability to sit still _endearing_ before though.

“The only time you’re calm is when you’re singing,” the boy continues. “I’m guessing that’s because when you’re up there you go into a sort of trance, let the music take you away?”  
  
_Damn these wolves being so perceptive._  
  
“Yeah,” Stiles confirms. “That’s exactly what it’s like.  
  
“That’s sorta like subspace,” Isaac informs him. “I mean, it’s different for everyone, and not everyone gets it, but it’s pretty much a feeling of being _high_. It helps you get out of your own head for a while; most or all of your problems disappear for a time.”  
  
Stiles’ eyes widen. “It sounds amazing.”  
  
“Hm, it can be.” Isaac looks at his hands for a moment. “It’s not for everyone, I get that, and I’m not trying to pressure you. Just ’cause we all do it doesn’t mean you have to, but I just thought you might see the benefits of giving over your control for a while. But, maybe not.”  
  
“No, I- thanks for the suggestion. I might look into it more.”

Isaac’s head snaps up at that, a hopeful expression on his face. “Peter’s the _best_ Dom you could ask for; you should speak to him; he knows _everything_ there is to know.”  
  
_Woah, hold the phone._  
  
“Erm, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean, he’s my boss.”  
  
Isaac shrugs as if to say _‘and?’_  
  
Stiles expands. “I won’t lie, Peter’s as hot as the sun, but I’ve always lived by the motto of never fucking the guy who pays your wages. Doesn’t end well.”  
  
“I didn’t say anything about _fucking_ him.” Isaac has a grin on his face, it looks smug, and maybe a little bit teasing.

Stiles feels his face heat at the implication he’s just walked himself into. “I-I just meant-”  
  
“Relax, I’m just teasing you. Hell, if you want to climb Peter like a tree you go for it, I was just saying he’s the best there is when it comes to knowledge of the subject.”  
  
Stiles’ brain short circuits, Isaac is a little shit under all that innocence, and he can’t help but smile at being trusted to see this side of him. “Let’s move on from Peter and his Top Dom Energy, shall we?” Isaac snorts, letting him continue. “You mentioned that you all do this stuff?”

“Kinda, yeah. Erica and Boyd are switches, so they basically change roles whenever the mood takes them. Cora is just really kinky. I always said she’d suit being a Master or something because I can see her with a Slave, but she says she doesn’t really care for the long term. She likes one time sex, or maybe a few times if she finds someone who shares her likes, but she doesn’t think she’d be suited to someone relying on her for long periods.”

Stiles huffs. “Okay, so I’ve learned _a lot_ more about Cora’s sex life than I cared too, but now that you mention it, I can _totally_ see her with a slave.”

They share a breathy chuckle and right at that moment, the very woman walks through the door. “Right, enough chat.” She claps her hands together loudly. “It’s about time you got yourself ready, Stiles,” she exclaims with an air of command.

Stiles and Isaac look at each other before bursting to the seams with laughter. Cora looks at them as if they’re mental, and it takes them a second to compose themselves. “What’s so funny?” she asks, utterly oblivious to their conversation.

“Nothing,” they both chirp together. 

After one last giggle, Stiles stands from the bench, and Isaac follows suit. “I better get changed before doors open. I’ll talk to you later on, yeah?” Stiles puts his hand on Isaac’s shoulder as he goes to leave. “And hey, _thank you,”_ he says sincerely.

“Sure thing,” Isaac smiles before walking out the door with a little bit of a spring in his step.

Cora watches the beta leave then turns back to Stiles. “Do you need me tonight?”

“I might need you later on, but for the first half I think I’ll just go on my own.”

“Cool,” she acknowledges, turning on her heel to leave. “Just let me know.”

Stiles goes over to the closet that holds all his costumes. Peter has filled it with all sorts in the last few months, and Stiles is now in charge of picking his own attire for each evening. He has enough suits and costumes to rival any high-end clothing store, and he can’t lie, it’s incredible.

Most of the things in here are glittery and _very_ showy, but Stiles managed to convince Peter to let him have at least a handful of outfits of a more plain nature. Peter hadn’t been easily swayed, reverting back to his earliest comment about wanting Stiles to stand out, to be the _‘shining star’._ But, he’d eventually relented, Stiles thinks he owes it to the puppy dog eyes he’d aimed at the man, but it was maybe just Peter’s way of getting him to shut up. Either way, he now has a few average looking suits, with only the slightest hint of sparkly detail and he feels like tonight calls for one of those.

He picks out a soft grey three-piece suit, brown leather brogues and a cutesy little bow tie littered with diamantes—’cause come on, he may not want to look like a Christmas tree, but he can still accessorise.

He changes quickly but efficiently, making sure he looks presentable—for the benefit of at least one man in particular.

Stiles would like to say that over the last few months—when he’d thought Peter was in a relationship with Isaac—that his feelings for the man had simmered down. But, that would be a total lie. Sure, he’d minimised the flirting and just shrugged it off as witty banter ’cause he’s not a homewrecker. But now, with the knowledge that he’s been wrong all this time, he sees no reason that he can’t spruce himself up a little more than usual.

Isaac’s casual acceptance of Stiles finding Peter attractive has made him rethink the whole _‘don’t fuck the boss’_ sentiment. There’s still a little voice niggling at the back of his head saying Peter doesn’t want him and to be honest it’s probably right but when has Stiles ever listened to the voice of reason?

He’s just going to have to get his ass on stage and show the man what he’s missing, who says he can’t have a little fun?

~

_“With the taste of your lips, I’m on a ride...”_

Stiles is sitting centre stage, his fingers expertly playing the notes of a slowed-down version of Toxic on the piano. It’s one of his favourites, and he knows his voice sounds low and sultry as he sings it.

He has the audience’s undivided attention, all of their eyes boring into him as he nears the end of the song.

_“With a taste of the poison, paradise. I’m addicted to you, don’t you know that you’re toxic...”_

Stiles lifts his eyes from his hands, scanning the audience for the one man he wants to tempt. His gaze meets Peters almost instinctively; the man has his back against the bar, his sapphire focus locked on Stiles with an intensity that sends a shiver through his spine.

Stiles doesn’t lower his eyes, doesn’t shy away from the tension between them. He lets a wicked smile curl his lips as he tilts his head back slightly—putting his neck on display in such a way that he knows looks enticing—as he stares straight at Peter and finishes the song.

_“Intoxicate me now, with your lovin’ now. I think I’m ready now.”_

After a few more seconds, Peter breaks the fierce stare, and Stiles can’t help the lurching twinge of disappointment in his gut. The Alpha turns sharply on his heel, leaving the room, and Stiles finds himself yearningly following after the man with his eyes.

The noise of the room is what snaps him from his daze; he lets himself bask in the crowd’s applause, pushing aside his woes for the time being.

Peter clearly doesn’t want him, and Stiles will just have to move on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter's involvement in Isaac's wellbeing is 100% consensual. He just helped Isaac in the way he knew how. I just wanted to start with that before anyone comments otherwise.
> 
> At first, I wasn't sure if there's such a thing as a non-sexual dom/sub relationship, because I just didn't know enough. I always assumed it was all about kink and sex, but apparently, I was completely wrong and a little ignorant—I have now been educated. I actually read about a few asexual people who are into the whole dom/sub thing because it helps with keeping relaxed, but they don't get aroused by it. That they enjoy the hierarchy and structure of it, rather than the kink which I found really interesting and so I decided to add soemthing similar into Isaac's story.
> 
> Stiles is singing [Marie Plassard's cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWwYfHJ1it4) of Toxic by Britney Spears. It's from the Fifty Shades of Grey Soundtrack. I really dislike the movies, but the music is fire. 
> 
> If I am missing any tags, disclaimers, or warnings, please let me know.
> 
> Thanks for reading—more on the way very soon.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Thirsty?” The man asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.
> 
> Stiles realises that he’s staring like a man possessed. “Parched,” he groans and Derek actually smiles—just a small curl to his lips but its progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set about three or four hours after the last chapter, just to be clear.
> 
> This has probably been my favourite to write so far, so hopefully, you like it. It was also the very first chapter I mapped out when I came up with the idea for this fic, which seems really weird to me since it's taken this long to actually get to it.
> 
> Please forgive me if it takes me a week or so to update after this, but I seriously need a break. I've been awake until the wee hours of the morning for the last few days trying to get these two chapters written and edited and it's taken its toll. I just wanted to entertain you all through these hard times, but I need a bit of a rest. 
> 
> As always, all mistakes are mine, but I hope you can overlook them for now.
> 
> Take care all, and stay safe!

Stiles chuckles, high on all sorts of endorphins as he takes a theatrical bow before making his way down the stage steps.

After a few hours of singing, his throat is parched. He shimmies himself up to where Derek is mixing some green monstrosity behind the bar, plonking himself down unceremoniously on one of the stools. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he watches Derek pour the cold alcoholic liquid into an iced martini glass.

“Thirsty?” The man asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Stiles realises that he’s staring like a man possessed. “Parched,” he groans, and Derek actually _smiles_ —just a small curl to his lips but its progress.

Derek reaches under the bar with his free hand. “Here,” he warns before flipping a bottle of water into the air. Stiles flails forwards, his face splitting into a triumphant grin when he manages to catch it.

“My hero.” He clasps the bottle to his chest, fluttering his eyelashes, knowing fine well that he looks ridiculously adorable, but it’s his life’s mission to make the wolf laugh.

Sure enough, Derek lets out something close to a chuckle, he’s shaking his head too, but it looks fond with the way his eyes wrinkle with his smile.

Stiles lifts his arms into the air in victory. “Yes! I’ve done it... I’ve wormed my way past your icy exterior and melted your heart. I knew I’d win you over.”

Derek glares at him, his face dropping instantly as if he’s just realised what he’s done. But, after a beat Stiles can see him struggle to keep his mask straight, especially when Stiles does a little victory dance in his seat.

“You’re ridiculous; you know that?” he huffs, but there’s no heat behind the words.

“Whatever you say, Der, but you like me, and you know it,” he says confidently, winking playfully before taking a long, indulgent gulp of his water.

“Hm, I have to admit, I do finally see what Peter sees in you.”

Stiles chokes. “Whaa?” He manages to squeak out through hearty coughs and splutters.

A firm hand comes down on his back harshly, and he notices through glassy eyes that Derek has leaned over the bar to help him. “Hell Stiles, breathe.”

“Sorry... just... just wasn’t expecting that,” he croaks, voice a few pitches higher as he tries to hold in his coughing fit. He can feel tears fall from his eyes, but he blinks them away. 

Derek just shrugs as he slides back to standing. “Not saying you’re not annoying as all Hell, but yeah you’ve sorta grown on me,” he admits casually but then adds with a smirk. “Like a huge boil on my ass.”

“Oh, be still my beating heart,” Stiles deadpans as Derek grins to himself. “And here I thought you were about to profess your undying love for me. I was fit to burst with all these mushy confessions,” he quips as Derek rolls his eyes. “And oh my god,” he exclaims, only just realising something. “You’re _actually_ talking. Holy shit, Der, this is monumental.”

“Oh, shut up.” Derek gives him one more glare before turning to grab a few bottles from behind him.

Watching Derek multitask like it’s absolutely nothing is weirdly soothing for Stiles. He can barely talk and walk at the same time, never mind do all those fancy bottle flips and shit that the wolf is doing while talking to him, and he’s doing both with such a casual grace that it’s as if he could do it in his sleep.

Something clings to Stiles though, from that sentence of Derek’s, something he can’t quite let go without picking at it. His earlier disappointment is still haunting his mind. So he clears his throat and decides to test how distracted Derek actually is. “W-what exactly does Peter _see_ in me?”

“He likes you,” Derek comments. “He likes you _a lot_.” The wolf smiles mirthfully to himself as he juggles a few glasses in his hands, not really looking at Stiles as he speaks.

Stiles sees the instant the man’s brain catches up with his words; his body stiffening, his shoulders tensing, his face falling—the _‘oh fuck'_ goes unsaid, but it’s present.

Derek turns to look at Stiles, his mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out. Stiles just stares at him, eyebrows raised, not really sure how to defuse the situation. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up to then find out Derek was just teasing, so he waits until the beta is finally back online. 

After a moment’s awkward silence just gawking at each other, Derek lets out a long sigh. “Look, I won’t lie to you, Peter is kinda interested in a little more than _just_ your singing voice.” 

Stiles blinks a few times, jaw almost hitting the top of the bar.

Peter _likes_ him? He _like_ likes him? He’s undoubtedly dreaming. He’d practically serenaded the man earlier, and the asshole just walked off—completely unaffected. That seemed like a clear cut rejection in Stiles’ eyes.

“Is it really that much of a shock?” Derek continues after Stiles says nothing. “He’s not exactly subtle. Hell, we all realised it after about the second time he called you _‘little one’,_ and I think that was within the first hour of meeting you.” Derek chuckles as if this whole thing is top-notch entertainment.

“Wait a minute, _‘we’_?” Stiles squeals. “Am I the last person in the gang to know about this?”

“You really are oblivious, aren’t you?”

That’s the second time today Stiles has been told that.

Derek looks like he almost feels sorry for him, and Stiles isn’t having it. “Well, apologies _Derek,”_ he spits out the guy’s name with a little more venom than necessary. “But have you _seen_ your uncle?” At Derek’s confused brow lift, he elaborates. “He’s as hot as sin, and I’m... I’m well, _me_. So, of course, I didn’t think he’d ever-”

“Well, he likes you,” Derek interrupts, and Stiles is sort of grateful because he was about to get into a tirade of why he didn’t think Peter wanted him, and he’s not sure he and Derek are at that sort of level of friendship yet.

“Yes, you’ve said that but _why_?” Stiles is almost pleading with the guy now.

“Argh, Stiles I’m not about to stand here and reel off all your qualities-”

“It’d make me feel better.” Stiles pouts.

“No, just no,” Derek refuses, continuing as if Stiles hadn’t even spoken. “I shouldn’t have even said anything, but I’m sick of seeing him pine after you like some lovesick puppy.”

 _Ha,_ _puppy_.

“I doubt he’s pining.” Now its Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes, scoffing at the very idea of Peter, the Alpha werewolf, pining.

Derek gives him a look that says _‘wanna bet?’_

Stiles grits his teeth. “If he’s _so_ into me, why has he not made a move?”

“I couldn’t tell you.” Derek shrugs, and it looks like he’s telling the truth.

Stiles groans, his head falling into his hands. “What should I do?”

“You like him?”

“ _Really?_ You have to even ask that.”

Derek smirks, and Stiles gets the deep urge to punch him. “Not really, it’s actually quite adorable how you flush whenever he walks into the room.”

“I do not,” Stiles snarls, hazarding a glance around him to make sure no one else is listening in to this conversation. He’d rather not have everyone witness his embarrassment.

“Uh, huh.” Derek’s tone is condescending. “The stage is yours; why not... I don’t know... put on a _show_?”

Stiles flails a little, throwing his hands in the air to pray for strength and serenity. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last few months, Derek, huh? Shooting ping pong balls out my ass? Come on dude, help a guy out here.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek grumbles, but his face goes back to amused. “I have to say, though, that sounds rather intriguing.”

“ _Derek,”_ Stiles whines pitifully, he’s very close to begging now.

Derek groans, wiping his hand over his face in exasperation. Stiles can tell he’s not suited to giving relationship advice, and at another time he’d feel sorry for the guy ’cause he’s clearly uncomfortable but not right now. He’s the one who brought this up, so he can suffer.

“Up until now, you’ve been singing on stage and putting on a performance for the audience, but what I am saying is; put on a _show.”_ Derek is really putting emphasis on that word. “Not for the crowd, but for _Peter_. Get up on that stage, use the resources you have; the band, the costumes, Cora and get out there and Put. On. A. Show.”

Stiles thinks about it for a second, maybe Derek’s onto something here. “So, you’re telling me to get up on stage and seduce your Uncle using song and dance.”

Derek nods, a look in his eyes that says _‘got it in one.’_

Stiles takes a moment, thinking it through. Maybe his little tease earlier just hadn’t been enough. Perhaps it was too subtle; he maybe needs to strap a massive flashing sign to his forehead saying _‘bang me’_ before Peter gets it. Perhaps he shares Stiles’ ideals about workplace relationships? _Doubt it_ , since Stiles now knows that everyone here is paired up with each other—Boyd and Erica, Derek and Isaac—that argument has about as much point as pissing in the wind.

Stiles starts giggling to himself, and Derek raises his eyebrow at him. “What’s funny?”

“I thought Peter was with Isaac.”

“Yeah, he told me.” Derek doesn’t look angry, though, even when he shakes his head and scoffs. “You really are an idiot.”

Derek’s’ not wrong there and after his little revelation, suddenly Peter’s behaviour all those months ago makes perfect sense. Well, not to a human perspective but a wolf, maybe.

Peter hadn’t been annoyed about the thought of Stiles taking Isaac from him, or annoyed on his nephew’s behalf as he’d thought after speaking to Isaac earlier. No, he could smell Isaac on Stiles and was... jealous? He thought Isaac was trying to pursue Stiles when Peter, the Alpha of the pack, had what? Laid his own sort of claim on him instead?

It’s fucked up, but Hell, Stiles can’t help feeling elated. Someone wants him so much that he literally went all macho on the competition.

A man as hot as Peter is interested in his geeky, awkward self. It’s like all his Christmases have come at once. The whole possessive thing should really be sending him running for the hills, any normal person with even a lick of self-preservation and sense would pack up and bolt.

Stiles has never been _normal_. He’s also maybe more of an idiot than he initially thought.

He really has been oblivious, but now is the perfect time for him to clear up this little _misunderstanding_.

~

It’s close to the end of the night, and after his talk with Derek, he’s decided for his next number—his last number, if all goes well—that he’s going to put on a motherfucking show. Not that he hasn’t been doing that already, no matter what Derek says, but this time, even if it’s just this once, he’s going to pull out all the stops.

_Operation Get Banged By The Alpha is a-go._

He smirks to himself, his devilish mind working on overtime as he makes his way to the women’s staffroom where he knows Cora is freshening up for the final stretch of the evening. He doesn’t knock, has seen her half-naked more times than he can count to be bothered by what he sees.

“Cora, I need your help,” he announces while rushing through the door as if he’s being chased.

“With what?” she drawls from where she sits at the vanity, huffing as she tops up on her makeup.

She barely even looks up from her position, and Stiles sometimes forgets that they can hear him coming—there’s no startling a werewolf.

“To get me into your uncle’s bed.” He winces internally as soon as the words leave his mouth in a jumble. He could have worded that better, but he doesn’t exactly have the time to explain in more conservative terms.

He sees Cora freeze in her movements before she places her makeup brush onto the vanity with terrifyingly calm composure. She turns in her seat to look at him, she just needs a fluffy white cat, and she’d look like a Bond villain.

Her eyebrows are raised to about her hairline and Stiles isn’t sure if she’s going to punch him to a bloody pulp or tell him to run and give her the thrill of the chase. He still isn’t overly confident in his ability to gauge her emotions, but he can feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he waits.

The silence is deafening, but eventually, she turns back around, and he can see her smug smirk in the mirror. “Bout damn time,” she snorts.

Stiles let’s all his breath leave him at once; he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding it. Cora is scary and unpredictable, and he wasn’t sure how his wanting to sleep with her uncle would go down. “Really?”

“Hell yes, I’m sick of you two dancing around each other. I’m pretty sure I could cut through the sexual tension with a knife, it’s disgusting.” She wrinkles her nose, but she still looks amused.

“Well, I need your help to make it happen.”

She nods a little, looking straight at him, but she’s distracted as if deep in thought. “What’s your plan?”

“What... no smart-ass remark? No tantrum? Who are you, and what have you done with Cora Hale?”

She glares at him. “Don’t make me change my mind, Stilinski. What you and my uncle do behind closed doors is _not_ something I want to know about, but I'm definitely not going to miss the opportunity to have a hand in getting you guys together.” She points at him through the reflection, pinning him on the spot. “You know me by now; I like to be involved in all the schemes and plans.”

Stiles snorts. “Right, so, I was thinking, well, it was actually Derek’s ide-”

She throws her head back and laughs cruelly. “Ha, this will be golden.”

Stiles knows they love each other, but they fight like cat and dog. Well, it’s never _real_ fighting, more just bickering and trying to one-up each other—typical siblings really.

“He suggested I put on a show,” Stiles explains. “You know, seduce him with my performance.” He wiggles his eyebrows in the most ridiculous way, and Cora huffs out a laugh.

“That’s... actually not a bad plan.” She looks at him thoughtfully for a second, chewing the inside of her cheek as she scans his face. He dreads to think what’s she’s planning in that devilishly clever brain of hers. “Have you ever worn makeup?”

Oh, Christ, he’s going to regret this.

~

After Cora has finished primping him up, he takes a long calculating look at himself in the mirror and man; he looks _hot_. His mouth actually opens on a silent _‘o’_ , his eyebrows rising in disbelief as he takes in what he sees in the reflection.

His eyes have been accentuated with smudged black liner, his cheeks highlighted with shimmering glitter and his lips tinted with the smallest hint of reddened shine.

Cora has dressed him simply, but damn is it effective. Tight black trousers to show off his long legs, and a white shirt that’s acting as an almost second skin with a few buttons open at the top. He isn’t wearing a jacket, Cora said it hides his figure too much, and he has to agree with her. His shirt sleeves are rolled up his forearms to make the look more _'effortlessly sexy'_ as Cora had put it.

She runs her fingers through his hair, a little product on her hands to give it an artful bed-head sort of appearance and he's ready.

She stands back to ogle him, arms crossed over her chest, and Stiles can see the proud smugness in her expression. “I’m a miracle worker. If Peter doesn’t jump you as soon as you're done, then I’m quitting.”

Stiles laughs at her, but he’s thinking the same. If Peter doesn’t catch on to this whole thing, and it proves to be a waste of time or worse, a complete embarrassment when he gets rejected, well Stiles isn’t sure he'll be able to show his face again.

He breathes out, puffs up his chest, squaring his shoulders. No, that isn’t going to happen. If Peter wants him, Stiles is just going to have to show him that he’s ripe for the taking.

He’s going to go out there and put on the best goddamn show he’s ever done, and he’s gonna get himself his man.

~

Cora clued the band into what they’re going to be doing. Well, not the whole _Peter_ thing but she’s told them that Stiles is doing something a little different this time.

Stiles saunters onto the stage with all the confidence he can muster, swaying his hips a little as he goes. He has a look of pure roguish intent on his face as he spots Peter lounging in one of the loveseats, mouth slightly parted as the wolf takes in his appearance.

Cora asked Isaac to coax the man out of his office, told him to flutter his innocent eyes to get the guy out here for Stiles’ final performance of the evening.

The man looks the epitome of dangerous, his hands sprawled out along the back of the seat, legs open in such a casual laidback way that Stiles is just itching to kneel between them. He can see the man’s eyes light up, even from all the way over here. He looks like a King awaiting his entertainment—as if Stiles is the jester in his castles court.

Well, Stiles will not be playing clown tonight.

The band starts playing, the sound ricocheting heavily off the walls, sending a thrill straight through his core. With an encouraging wink from Cora, he begins.

_“This was never the way I planned, not my intention. I got so brave, drink in hand, lost my discretion...”_

Stiles’ voice purrs low and velvety, the words dripping from his tongue like honey as he grinds a little, getting a feel for the movement. He doesn’t usually make use of the space on stage when he’s performing, choosing either to stand still or sit at the piano, but tonight calls for a whole lotta moving.

Cora shoots him an impressed grin, and he goes for broke. 

_“I kissed a girl, and I liked it, the taste of her cherry chapstick...”_

He bends forward, arching his back, bringing the mic with him as his hips roll with the beat of the music. Three background dancers make their way through the club, adding to the burlesque ambience, moving their bodies seductively in time with every honeyed word that leaves his lips.

Cora abandons her mic, opting instead to get into Stiles’ space, dancing against him before he grabs her waist, hauling her close. He squeezes her ass as he sings the next words close to her lips.

_“You’re my experimental game, just human nature...”_

He flicks his eyes to Peter, relishing in the way the man is gripping the edge of the seat to the point of his knuckles turning white. His eyes ferocious as his gaze never leaves him.

Stiles grins, a triumphant little smirk as he moves back, and Cora plays her part beautifully—biting her lip, running her hands over his torso and shoulders as he sings the lyrics to her.

Cora mentioned that Peter is a _very_ jealous man and that she’s more than happy for Stiles to use her to exploit that for everything it's worth.

The she-wolf wraps her leg around him, bending backwards in a show of flexibility; Stiles doesn’t have to fake the awed expression on his face as he holds her tight against him, keeping her steady. She rolls back up, blowing him a tempting kiss, smirking filthily as she sashays back to her mic. Stiles makes a show of raking his eyes over her figure as she goes before turning back to face the audience.

_“I kissed a girl just to try it; I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it...”_

He finds Derek’s eyes, the man standing at the bar with a look of equal measures amusement and smug satisfaction. Stiles milks this for all its worth, throwing the man a wink and a kiss, and he doesn’t miss how Peters seething attention follows the gesture.

Derek chuckles, shaking his head at Stiles’ display before going back to mixing drinks, and if looks could kill, Peters would have Derek six feet under.

Stiles can practically taste the jealousy radiating from the man and, oh, does it taste sickly sweet.

He’s loving every minute of this. A rush of ecstasy sparking through him at just how powerful he feels in this moment, how goddamn sexy he knows he looks up here on this stage. He can see it in the eyes of the crowd just how much they want him—men and women alike. Hell, even Boyd and Erica have broken their military ranks just to gawk at him in obvious desire.

It’s one of the best feelings he’s ever experienced, and later he'll have to thank Derek profusely for coming up with the plan, should all go well he may even convince Peter to give the guy a raise.

Stiles unhooks his microphone from its stand, walking off the stage with a captivating sway. He wants to kiss whatever God is watching for granting him all this gracefulness. He manages to swagger his way down the steps and across the middle of the club’s floor without so much as a customary stumble.

Cora had shown him a few moves when they were getting ready, ones she knew would get Peter hot for him. Stiles, however, is no stranger to dancing, having spent his fair share of time in clubs trying to entice men into his bed, so he just goes wild.

_“Us boys, we are so magical. Soft skin, red lips, so kissable...”_

He lets the music carry him through the crowd. Stopping once or twice to grind against the air in front of a few of the drooling patrons sitting at the tables. He winks and flirts as they throw their hands up to cheer for him.

He runs his hand through his hair, grabbing onto the ends to mess it up further-going for the _‘just been thoroughly_ _fucked'_ look before stopping just short of reaching the very man he’s here to tease. His eyes lock on Peters as he slides his tongue across his lips, putting on a face of faux coyness.

Peter’s steely blue eyes track the movement, and it’s what drives Stiles to keep going. 

_“Ain’t no big deal, it’s innocent...”_

He rolls his bottom lip through his teeth, head tilted back submissively—teasing the wolf—letting out a deep moan right as the beat drops.

Peter looks as if he’s about to pounce and Stiles is sure he isn’t imagining the growl vibrating from the man’s chest. He spins on his heel to make his way back on stage, if he rocks his hips more than usual, well that’s his prerogative.

Cora looks absolutely ecstatic, and maybe a little bit proud. It’s as if she’s just won the damned lottery and yeah, okay, she’s allowed to be happy ’cause Stiles is too.

_“I kissed a girl, and I liked it. I liked it!”_

Stiles thrusts his fist into the air as the music ends. His breath coming in short pants, chest heaving as he watches the crowd jump to their feet to show him their praise.

A breathless giggle erupts from his gut, his smile splitting his face. He catches sight of Derek who’s giving him a nod in commendation as he joins the acclaim, Stiles just laughs a little manically, sending him a quick nod back.

He scans the space where Peter had been sitting only to find the chair empty, but before his mind starts racing and he comes to the conclusion that he’s been rejected once again, the very man strides up the steps of the stage prowling his way towards him.

In his distraction, he hadn’t seen the Alpha weave through the club, the crowd parting like the red sea before he came to be towering over him. The fact that he’s a little shorter than Stiles is really not taking anything away from his commanding presence. He can feel his heart pick up speed, his lungs burning as he tries to hold in his breath so he can hear the man’s words over the audience.

“I want to see you in my office,” Peter whispers into his ear, walking briskly off stage without checking to see if Stiles will follow. 

Cora gives him the thumbs up, but Stiles can’t help the little blossom of panic in his gut. What if Peter’s going to ask him to leave? Maybe Stiles has seriously miscalculated and is now going to be punished—and not in a good way—for trying to seduce his boss.

He takes a second to breathe before he goes to leave the stage, trying his best to mask his worry as he passes Cora who leans over to speak in his ear. “Go get him, tiger.” She pats him on the back, and he makes his way through the crowd.

His heart is pounding, the sound travelling all the way up to his ears—almost deafening. He feels as though he’s walking to the gallows, but he still has a little flicker of hope.

He knocks on Peter’s office door twice, taking a slight step back as he waits for it to open. Thankfully for his nerves, he only has to wait a second before the Alpha is holding the door ajar and signalling for him to come inside.

Looking much like Little Red who’s being eyed up by the Big Bad Wolf, he takes a wary step into the room. His eyes are stuck on the floor as he passes the man, shuffling to stand a little to the side as he waits for what he’s going to say.

But, Stiles just can’t keep his mouth from running away with him. “Are you going to-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, as Peter prowls forward, backing him up until he connects with the wall. Both his hands come up to either side of his shoulders, boxing him in. He leans forward into Stiles’ space, his face almost close enough to feel the ghosting of hot breath tickle his skin.

Stiles lets out a grunt as his back hits the hard brick, but any discomfort he feels is forgotten as soon as he sees the look in Peter’s eyes; how dark they are—his pupils blown wide with desire. His breath catches in his throat, his heart now pounding for an entirely different reason than it had been before. It’s no longer fear; this is anticipation; this is lust. 

“Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll let you leave here without ever mentioning it again,” Peter rumbles against his lips, low and sultry, the teasing proximity making Stiles tremble.

He knows that if he says no, Peter will accept it and let him walk away... but, he isn’t going to.

“I want this,” Stiles gasps out, a soft moan escaping him as Peters hand moves to cup the back of his neck—his thumb caressing his jaw as he pushes his chin upwards. “God Peter, I want this so much.” 

Peter chuckles at his desperation; the sound dark and predatory _._ “In that case, I’m going to fuck you over my desk until the only word you can remember is _please,”_ Peter purrs into the skin at his throat, an approving hum rumbling through his chest as Stiles tilts his head back more, granting him better access.

Goosebumps prickle across Stiles’ body as Peter’s words light a fire low in his gut. The wolf lightly skims his lips across the long expanse of skin, giving him the odd gentle nip which sends sparks straight to his cock. Stiles mewls as he clutches onto the front of Peters shirt trying to get the man’s mouth closer, pleading wordlessly for him to bite harder.

“You teased me, Stiles,” Peter accuses, tongue darting out to taste the sweat slicking his chin. “That was your plan, wasn’t it? To rile me up... To make me _jealous_ so I would drag you in here and show you just how much your little performance affected me, hm?”

“Yes,” Stiles hisses through his teeth, his body already alight with Peter barely even needing to touch him.

“Stiles, you have no idea how badly I wanted to take you apart right there on that floor,” Peter mutters into his shoulder, peppering soft kisses on the flushed bare skin there. “When you started dancing with Cora I wanted to push you to the ground and fuck you on that stage.” Stiles whines a little at the thought, his cock rock hard and leaking in the confines of his trousers; Peter’s addicting voice making him twitch uncontrollably. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Then show me.”

Peter lifts his head, and before Stiles has a chance to speak again, the man’s mouth is covering his own with a bruising pressure that makes his lips tingle and his head spin. Peter swallows all Stiles’ moans greedily, granting him no mercy as he explores his mouth—his tongue plundering with a dominating passion. It’s wet and messy. Filthy and just downright _intoxicating_.

Peter kisses him like he’s laying a claim—like he wants to take him apart with his lips, teeth and tongue and all Stiles can do is let him. He tries to keep up, but his mind is struggling, his body so overwhelmed by Peter’s touch that he can barely think clearly.

His hands scrabble for purchase, one holding onto Peter’s shoulder, the other twisting into the fabric of his jacket as he holds on for dear life. He’s trying desperately to pull the man closer—frantic in his need to feel the Alpha’s weight against him.

Peter breaks the kiss, smirking at Stiles’ failed attempt at getting some friction. “Oh, sweetheart. Let’s not forget who’s in charge here.”

Stiles whimpers, his body buzzing as his chest heaves—panting erratically for breath. He wants nothing more than for Peter to take the lead, has thought about it more times than is probably healthy, but he’s impatient, he can’t help how much his body craves to feel the man against him, on him, _in_ him—just everywhere all at once.

“Don’t worry, little one,” the Alpha shushes him, latching onto his lower lip, grinning filthily at the gasp the action rips from Stiles’ chest.

Peter moves his hand to his hip, applying a firm pressure to keep him pressed against the wall as he growls the next words right into his ear. “I’m going to take _such_ good care of you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahaha. Yes, I know I'm an asshole, come for my head if you must, but this is just where the chapter ends. I'm a dick and I do love a good ole fashioned cliffhanger.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, it's taken a long time to get to this point lemme tell ya! 
> 
> Oh, and Derek speaks. Hallelujah, praise the Lord.
> 
> The song used in this chapter is a [slowed down version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EYxihD1mTzo) of I Kissed A Girl by Katy Perry. It's slowed down to such an extent that it sounds like a man is singing and it's incredibly sexy—please listen to it immediately. I would even suggest listening to it and re-reading this chapter alongside it as it makes it so much better.
> 
> If I've missed any tags or warning, let me know!
> 
> I really appreciate your patience with me, and I am so flattered that you all want more. I never could have anticipated just how much love this fic would actually get, so thank you. Big hugs and I'll be back very soon!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man is making no move to get up or ask him to leave; instead, he feels the arms around him tighten, so Stiles settles himself. His mind is empty of all his usual cares and worries, the only thing he sees, feels and smells is Peter, and it sedates him in a way he's never known before.
> 
> The Alphas heartbeat, his calm and steady breathing along with his safe embrace lull him into sleep. His dreams are warm and bright, peaceful and serene for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for everyone who is following this, and I thank you for your patience. 
> 
> I've been working on a few shorter fics over the last few weeks, and I sort of forgot about this for a while as it was stressing me out. I had the chapter outlined, but sex is tough for me to write, so I gave up for a while to focus on other things and get some practice in.
> 
> This is quite short and all smut—no plot in sight.
> 
> I'm letting you guys know now that I have one or two fics I'm currently working on so this is going to be backheeled for a little while. I pushed myself to at least get this chapter out, so I wasn't leaving you hanging but it may be a few months before you see an update.
> 
> I have edited the best I can with Grammarly, but I am going to do a more thorough edit once I have finished as I really don't have the patience right now. This whole lockdown thing is taking its toll, so I'm not as productive as I had hoped. 
> 
> Thank you all for your support so far!

Peter's words light up something deep inside him, like a firework in the pit of his gut, shooting upwards and exploding right behind his eyes. The tendrils of colour mixed with the adrenaline from his performance onstage make his legs shake.

Peter wants to take care of him, wants to give him everything he hadn't realised he so desperately needs.

Stiles is unable to resist. "Please."

Almost as instantly as the word leaves his mouth, strong hands are under his thighs, lifting him into the air. Stiles instinctively wraps his flailing limbs around the man, his arms grasping on tightly around his shoulders with his legs around his waist.

He believes Peter's intentions to be true and just. He can't quite explain it, but something akin to gut instinct is telling him to give himself over entirely, to submit without hesitation to the power play between them. To trust him wholly.

Peter cradles him close, never once giving him the feeling of insecurity.

Stiles hears the clattering of various objects hitting the floor with a resounding _crash_ as he clings onto the Alpha with all his strength. He twists to see what's happening, but a scattering of paper floats through the air blocking his view as well as the affectionate press of Peters hand on the back of his head keeping him from turning too far.

Peter lays him down on the top of his desk carefully—as if he's the most precious thing in the world. Stiles now notices exactly what had been unceremoniously tossed onto the floor as he stretches his long limbs across the now completely empty workspace.

Before Stiles can come up with a snarky remark or tease at the fact the Alphas paperwork is now acting as a carpet, his mouth is covered with Peters own. The man puts every ounce of passion he has behind the kiss, all of his heated desire melts into Stiles' lips. It's hot and messy, firm and possessive—utterly primal.

The noises leaving the wolf's throat are guttural and desperate, dark and hungry as if he's battling with his inner demons to stay in control. As if he's equal parts frustrated and determined to get as close to Stiles as possible without actually being inside him. As if the very taste of Stiles is awakening a beast so Hell-bent on devouring him in his entirety.

Stiles has never felt more wanted.

"You taste just as sweet as I had hoped," Peter whispers between bouts of exploring his mouth. He moves down to Stiles' jaw, peppering little nips all the way to his throat, his teeth grazing over his pulse point—never biting, just a pleasurable tingle that he soothes over with his tongue.

Stiles' hands move along Peter's clothed figure, wishing internally that the layers of fabric weren't in the way. He wants to feel the man's skin, hot and naked against his fingertips.

As if reading his mind, Peter stands to strip off his suit jacket, throwing it across the room without care. His tie comes off next, sliding through his hands almost violently as he rips it away from his neck. He smirks at Stiles' inability to speak as he watches wide-eyed and entranced as the wolf unbuttons his shirt down to his navel. He leaves the rest still tucked into his pants, but Stiles is grateful for the view he now has of light curls and bare chest.

His cock twitches, his fingers tingling with the need to _feel_.

"Is that what you wanted, sweetheart?" Peter mumbles, grinning filthily as he leans down, almost covering him with his bulk—his weight on his elbows as he goes back to sucking at his neck.

Stiles nods, his hands moving to finally touch the man he's been fantasising about for so long. He can't stop the moan he lets out at the first graze of skin, his fingers running through the delicate hair and over the contour of each strong, hard muscle.

Peter indulges himself too, his mouth staying on Stiles' throat but his hands never idle. Fingers brushing along his thighs, ass and torso—exploring him. "You're wearing entirely too many clothes, sweet boy," Peter hums airily into his lips, holding his gaze as he speaks. "I want you bare beneath me." His hands move from his waist up to the top button of his shirt before halting, giving Stiles an inquiring look. "Can I?"

Stiles nods his affirmative, wanting nothing more than to be naked right at this very second. "Yes, please," he manages to stutter, his mind drunk on lust—high on everything that is _Peter Hale_.

Peter kisses him, something tame that feels like a _'thank you'_ without uttering the words.

His shirt comes off lazily, Peter sliding it off his arms as gently as he can. For a moment Stiles feels the biting need to hide himself, to shy away from the Alphas scrutiny but he manages to kick his self-consciousness out of the room as soon as he sees Peter's eyes light up in awe. The Alphas pupils are blown black with searing desire, and it gives him the confidence to uncover his naked torso, stretching his arms out to his sides.

Peter takes his time to worship every inch of skin newly bare in front of him. Using his lips, teeth and tongue, he covers every inch of Stiles' chest and belly with nips, licks and kisses. He can feel his blush bloom over his pale flesh—cheeks and chest warming up under Peter's unyielding devotion.

He's never felt so adored.

Stiles is writhing and whining by the time his pants are in a heap on the floor. Peter, having found how sensitive his nipples are, is exploiting the discovery for all it's worth, grinning hungrily the entire time. "You're so responsive," he murmurs ardently into the now swollen and puffy skin on his chest, eliciting a soft whimper from Stiles at the sensation. "You're everything I'd hoped you'd be... and more."

"Please, Peter," Stiles mewls, his whole body quivering with need.

Peter smirks, something wolfish as he straightens his posture to stand. The looming height he has over Stiles makes his gut fill with fire, something about having this deadly and dangerous Alpha towering over him just pushes him close to the edge. "Do you need to come, baby?"

At Stiles' frantic nod, he chuckles darkly. "I'm not stopping you, sweet one." His grin turns devilish in its intent. "Not this time, anyway."

Peter smoothes his hands over the tops of Stiles' creamy pale thighs, so close to where he desperately wants them. His hips cant off the desk, growling in frustration as he seeks the friction he needs.

Nevertheless, even with his inner thoughts screaming at him to let Peter keep going until he finally reaches his cock. As painfully hard and wanting as he is, he puts his fingers over the wandering hands, stopping them from advancing to where his body is aching for them to go. "I-I want to come with you inside me." He looks up at Peter through his lashes, rolling his plump bottom lip through his teeth. " _Please_."

The answering grin he gets is all teeth— _feral._ "As you wish."

In a move quicker than Stiles can comprehend, he's flipped onto his belly, his long legs hanging over the desk, feet placed firmly on the floor. Peter's hand is between his shoulder blades—a pressure guiding him flat against the desk. Stiles hisses as his bruised nipples hit the cold metal, the slight sting making him impossibly harder. 

Peter grabs hold of his wrists, moving them above his head before bending down to whisper in his ear. "Be a good boy and hold on tight for me."

Stiles shivers at his words, the _'good boy'_ making his cock drip profusely, his breath hitching as he quickly obeys the Alpha. He curls his nimble fingers around the edge of the desk, tightening his grasp until his knuckles turn white.

"You like that, hm?" Peter hums thoughtfully. "You like being my _good boy_?" The wolf's hips casually grind against his ass as he speaks. 

Stiles nods into his arm, not trusting his voice enough to speak as he feels the outline of Peter's length against him. A small burst of panic rises as he wonders how the Hell all of that is going to fit inside him.

A noise close to a snort comes from behind him. "Don't worry, little one; I'll prepare you well."

 _Shit_ , he must've said that out loud—or Peter can just sense his inner turmoil, maybe even read his mind, who knows?

There's a rip of fabric, and suddenly Stiles feels the chilled office air hitting his exposed ass—now completely bare as Peter intended. The wolf kneads the naked globes, appreciative humming noises filling Stiles' ears as he explores at his leisure.

There's a subtle click from behind him, followed by a wet squelch as Peter instructs him to spread his legs wider. Fingers, wet with slick, circle his rim. His body jolts at the sudden sensation, but he relaxes quickly, groaning into the touch as he gets used to it.

His sounds are muffled from where his mouth is pressed against his arm, but Peter curls the fingers from his free hand into his hair, pulling lightly until his neck bends backwards. "None of that now," Peter playfully chides, bringing his head down level with Stiles'. "I want to hear all the pretty noises you make." His stubbled cheek grazes against his bowed throat. "Don't hide a single thing from me, sweet boy."

One of Peter's thick fingers plunges into him, and Stiles can't stop the wanton moan that rips from his chest.

"Beautiful," Peter praises, giving him a sweet approving peck on the corner of his open mouth before standing back up—the grip on his hair staying put as he does so.

Peter's fingers move inside him—languid and attentive—getting him familiar with being filled. One and then two and then three; scissoring him open, enticing every nerve ending inside him to sing—rubbing against his sweet spot teasingly. 

Stiles wants to cry; he can feel the tears prickling his eyes, threatening to run down his flushed cheeks. He's overwhelmed, has never felt anything like this before and Peter has barely even started. The vulnerability he feels as the man's clothed figure presses against his bare frame makes his thighs tremble and his head spin.

Peter's hand in his dampening hair, never harsh or pulling, works as a persistent reminder that the Alpha is in control. His voice—rich and velvety—whispering honeyed words into his ear as he takes all the time in the world to tear Stiles apart at the seams. It's overpowering all his senses.

Peter kisses his cheek, his lips trailing though the salty, wet stream he hadn't realised was falling from his eyes. "Shhh, it's alright, little one," he soothes. "You're doing so well for me."

" _Please_." Stiles doesn't rightly know at this point what he's begging for. _More? Less?_

All he knows for sure is that he wants Peter close while he ruins him for anyone else. He's torn between wanting the Alpha to fuck him into the hard metal of his desk, mercilessly, and wanting something more tender. Does he want slow and sensual to go along with all his soft-spoken words of praise or rough and animalistic?

_Maybe a little of both?_

"Tell me what you need, baby."

"I-I don't know," Stiles sobs harder, not in pain—never in pain—but in frustration at his own body's indecisiveness. At his inability to know precisely what he wants, what he _needs_.

He closes his eyes tightly as he focuses on Peter's voice. "I've got you, sweetheart." The wolf blankets him with his body, making him feel safe and secure as his mind goes hazy—it's as if he's floating away. "Do you trust me?"

Stiles nods his head, needing no time to think on his answer. Lord forgive him, but he trusts Peter with his life—with his entire being. "I-I trust you."

"Then let me give you what you need." Peter's fingers slip from his hair, his hand moving to cup his jaw instead, forcing his head back even further. "I need you to tell me if I do something you don't like, okay? Anything at all."

Stiles nods.

"I need you to answer me, sweet one," the wolf encourages calmly. "This is really important."

"Yes, I'll tell you." Stiles swallows thickly, his words struggling with how his throat is angled. "I promise."

He can feel the curve of Peter's genuine smile against his cheek. "Good boy." 

Peter rises once again, fingers leaving his body as he takes a step back. Stiles whines at the loss, his hole clenching on nothing in his desperation to be filled.

The loud clicking of a belt buckle, the smooth slide of leather and subtle wrinkling of foil snaps his attention away from his emptiness.

There are several seconds of silence before Peter's hands are back on him, both going straight to his hips to hold him steady. "Are you ready, sweetheart?" he asks, and Stiles can't wait any longer.

"Fuck me, Peter," he pleads, hoping the wolf won't drag it out any longer. 

Peter doesn't answer, just thrusts into him with no more hesitation, a groan vibrating from his throat as his balls connect with Stiles' ass in one long, swift slide.

Stiles' mouth drops open on a moan, unable to say or do anything else as his body opens for Peter without objection. He holds his breath, as his eyes roll to the back of his head, the sensation of being so full making his brain short circuit. He's not going to last; he knows that for sure. With the way Peter is stretching him to his limits, carving out his place deep inside him—hollowing him out—he knows this will be over embarrassingly fast.

He can't find it in himself to care.

After giving him a moment to adjust to the intrusion, Peter begins to move. Pulling almost all the way out before plunging back in, tentatively at first, as if he's struggling with his own willpower to last longer than a few seconds, but soon enough he picks up the pace.

The wolf is giving in to his baser urges. A carnal need to rut into the constricting heat taking over; rendering Stiles almost incoherent with pleasure.

"Fuck, Stiles, you're so goddamn tight," Peter rumbles, a low growl purring in his chest, a sound not quite human but making Stiles quiver nonetheless. "So perfect for me."

Fingers dig into his hips, the bruising pressure lighting up Stiles' insides even further, the possessive touch is addicting, and he wants more. He wants to be covered from head to toe in Peter's marks, to feel the little zings of pain for days. He wants to remember with every step just how Peter had claimed him as his own.

He rocks back into Peters thrusts eagerly, chasing the heady weight of the Alphas cock inside him, relishing in the delicious throbbing at his hips as Peter's hands tighten for purchase.

He can't wait to see the vivid, purple and red marring his skin tomorrow.

He widens his legs more, pushing up on his toes to present his ass further, the slight change in position making it feel as though the Alpha is right in his guts, pushing in as deep as he can possibly go. "Yes," Stiles hisses through his teeth, a litany of curses and a mantra of Peter's name fall from his lips unbidden as the wolf fucks him in abandon.

He's so close he can almost taste it. 

Without thought, Stiles unclasps one of the hands still holding onto the desk above his head, intending to wrap his fingers around his aching cock—just to give himself that final push—when Peter stops him. "Uh-uh, keep your hands there for me, baby." Peter rests his hand atop his for a moment, pressing down to highlight the subtle command.

Peter's thrusts get faster— _rougher_ —as Stiles gets closer to falling over the precipice. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room—lewd and obscene. Peters faint growls and Stiles' high pitched moans ricochet against all four corners of the room.

_It's intoxicating._

Stiles' chest is heaving rapidly; the wolf filling him wholly, punishing that bundle of nerves inside him with practised ease. For a moment, Stiles thinks he'll be able to come untouched, while his cock is begging for friction, his muscles begin to tense—that familiar storm thundering below his spine. "Peter, I—"

"That's it, my perfect boy." Peter ruts impossibly deeper as one of his hands slide under him. " _Come for me_."

The Alphas fingers barely have a chance to constrict around his cock before Stiles is coming with a silent scream. Stars shooting behind his eyes as his orgasm punches through him harder than anything he's ever felt before. Every single muscle in his body seizes as he convulses almost violently through the intense jolts of pleasure.

It's after a few moments that he notices Peter has stilled above him, his cock pulsing in his ass—still buried to the hilt. He groans through his own climax, Stiles' name like a benediction on his lips.

His mind goes blank, unable to focus on anything else but the aftershocks, only having enough brain function left in him to hiss as Peter cautiously pulls out of him. He lets his head fall onto the frigid metal below, his breath coming in rapid pants as he comes down from his high.

He whimpers, startling when he feels something wet across his sensitive skin.

"It's alright, little one," Peter shushes him gently, his hand rubbing against his back in soothing circles as he cleans him.

Stiles goes pliant under the Alphas ministrations, the last sparks of pleasure gradually numbing, leaving his body in a tranquil state of pure bliss. He only manages a weak mumble as Peter scoops up his lax limbs into his arms, carrying him bridal style over to the leather couch along the far wall. He sits down, positioning Stiles in his lap—his movements caring and precise.

Stiles finds his head being motioned under Peter's chin. His hands instinctively fall to the exposed skin of the Alphas chest while he lodges his nose in the crook of the man's neck—taking deep greedy breaths of his rich musk. 

He isn't sure if this is a wolf thing or a Dom thing, but he loves it either way. While he enjoyed every second of being taken hard and fast, the realisation that Peter is a cuddler and is making good on his word to take care of him is the best part of all this.

A bottle rests against his lips, and he only gets to wonder for a second where the wolf magicked water from before the lukewarm liquid eases down his throat. He hadn't realised how thirsty he is until he manages to gulp down most of the bottle. He makes a noise of thanks as he goes back to snuggling into the man beneath him. He watches—enthralled—the Alphas adam's apple bobbing as he drinks down the rest before crushing the plastic in his hand and throwing it aside. 

Peter never stops touching him, nothing sexual, just a grounding presence. Even in his young age and with Peter being hotter than the sun Stiles doesn't think he could even entertain a second-round—not yet at least. He's just caressing his burning skin, keeping him secure, petting his damp sweat-slicked hair and whispering the odd sweet nothing into his ear.

Before long, Stiles feels his eyes drooping heavily. He curls himself further into Peter, chasing the warmth of his body as sleep threatens to take over him.

Peter leans to the side, and Stiles feels the thick, cosy wool of a blanket being wrapped around him. "Thank you," he sighs contentedly, his voice almost silent with how fast the wave of sated tiredness is taking over him. 

"Nothing to thank me for, sweet boy." Stiles can feel Peters smile against his forehead as he presses a lingering kiss there.

The man is making no move to get up or ask him to leave; instead, he feels the arms around him tighten, so Stiles settles himself. His mind is empty of all his usual cares and worries, the only thing he sees, feels and smells is _Peter,_ and it sedates him in a way he's never known before.

The Alphas heartbeat, his calm and steady breathing along with his safe embrace lull him into sleep. His dreams are warm and bright, peaceful and serene for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated for the longest time whether I wanted Peter to fuck Stiles into oblivion or for him to be gentle and caring. So, I compromised and went for both. 
> 
> There's no contract between them yet, and I think I managed to keep this away from being too dom/sub as I didn't want to offend anyone by getting into the unnegotiated territory. However, it is still evident that Peter is in charge, and Stiles is one-hundred per cent happy with that. 
> 
> I hope you are all well and safe; I should be back soon. In the meantime, I have posted quite a few shorter fics if you want to fill the gap until the next chapter is ready.
> 
> Take care, all!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter offers him a contract. 
> 
> Stiles had been expecting it, or in the very least hoping for it. Peter has been forthcoming about his lifestyle from the day he started, so he was under no illusion that should either of them desire their relationship to progress from last night then a contract between them was a given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's taken me so long, but I just lost all motivation for this fic and didn't want to continue it until I was in the right headspace for it. 
> 
> I've been stressing over these next few chapters for days now and I'm at the point where I just post and hope for the best, lmao. I have one more chapter written so expect that either tonight or tomorrow.
> 
> I haven't yet acquired a Beta so there will be mistakes. I have recently re-read every chapter and edited again using Grammarly, so if you wanted to have a wee re-read, you may notice a few very subtle changes throughout. I am still going to go back over the whole thing when it's complete but for now, it's the best I can do.
> 
> I'm hoping to have this finished soon, but I'm not going to put time pressures on myself as I'm now back to work and have even less time to update. I have drafted the remaining chapters and have finally gotten my passion back so here's hoping it'll not take another half a year.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience; enjoy!

Stiles awakens lazily, a dopey smile etched onto his face, his body cosy, muscles relaxed as he snuggles closer into the warm chest under him.

The strong arms still holding him safe coil tighter for a moment before deft hands roam over his blanket-covered limbs, coaxing him further into consciousness. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

“G’ morn’g,” Stiles mumbles, face pressed into the side of Peter’s neck. “Wh’ time zit?”

A deep, husky laugh rumbles in Peter’s chest, the reverberation heating his skin further, his heart skipping at the rough melodic sound. “A little after ten.”

“Hmpf,” Stiles grunts unintelligibly. He wills his lax frame to work with him, straightening to a seating position on the man’s lap. He steadies himself with his hands flat against Peter’s bare chest, his sleep-dazed expression eliciting an adoring smile from the wolf. He answers with a smile of his own, fingers reaching up to caress the man’s stubbled cheek. “I should go.”

Peter covers his hand with his own, bringing the palm to his lips to press a tender kiss. “You don’t have to.”

“But I should,” Stiles whispers insistently, not that he wants to leave, he desires nothing more than to stay in Peters embrace for the rest of the day, maybe even forever but he can’t. If he stays, the man will get nothing done, of that he’s certain and while he has no doubt Peter wouldn’t begrudge setting everything aside to spend more time with him, he doesn’t want to unbalance their schedules. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Peter nods at the promise, his calming touch sliding over his hips, gently keeping him in place as he makes a move to stand up. “Before you leave, I’d like to discuss something with you... once you’re dressed.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, leaning forward to nuzzle against Peter’s nose, not a kiss but something just as soft, something with just as much meaning. 

~

Peter offers him a contract. 

Stiles had been expecting it, or in the very least hoping for it. Peter has been forthcoming about his lifestyle from the day he started, so he was under no illusion that should either of them desire their relationship to progress from last night then a contract between them was a given.

He didn’t even flinch when the man sat him down to propose the question, there was a split second where a thought crossed his mind regarding the speed of it all but it left as quickly as it came.

Going from a professional relationship to the best fucking of his life, to discussing the possibility of Peter becoming his Dom all in the space of twenty-four hours should probably have startled him. But truth be told, from the moment he met Peter he knew he wanted the man, it’s been months, and with Peter’s devoted actions towards him last night, he’s sure the wolf’s feelings didn’t just sprout wings overnight either.

Stiles is more than ready to take the next step, whatever that involves. He won’t lie, he’s eager to test the waters, to dabble in something new and stimulating. His overactive brain is positively giddy with enthusiasm for what lies ahead.

The wolf advised him to study the documents to the point of delirium, do adequate research then read it again for good measure. He wants him to take his time, to figure out if this really is something he wants to invest in before diving in headfirst. 

_‘There’s no rush.’_ Peter had assured him before Stiles left the club with a prominent limp. _‘Even if I would like nothing more than to fuck you into every piece of furniture in the club until you can’t walk, I need you to be sure this is what you want.’_

Stiles had whimpered at the man’s words while simultaneously melting at the genuine consideration. He’d bobbed his head like a nodding dog, agreeing to be meticulous before returning home to study the ominous-looking word document in his inbox.

The Alpha had also assured Stiles that he’d answer every one of his questions no matter how insignificant he thinks they are. Stiles just snorted at him, promising Peter that he’ll regret that kindness, considering he’s the King of pointless lines of enquiry.

Stiles dedicates his whole day off to reading over the contract, re-reading it and re-reading it until he’s positive he could stand up on stage and recite the thing as easy as the alphabet. He does some investigation—because of course, he does—jotting down on the return email to Peter any questions he can’t find answers to online, or things he _can_ find answers to but they just prove to confuse him more.

Even though Stiles’ mind and body were buzzing with anticipation the moment he opened the damned thing, he managed to turn his curiosity and longing down to a simmer in order to actually think everything through.

_There’s a first time for everything, right?_

Several pages purely consist of _activities_ with tick boxes for Stiles to answer _‘yes’_ , _‘no’_ or _‘maybe’_. He can even write in a comment if he feels so obliged.

He reads through them carefully, stopping to research a term if it doesn’t make sense to him before giving his answer. To be honest, there’s a few he stutters over, his mouse hovering over the boxes as he debates whether he likes the sound of the description or not.

This is all new to him; while he knows for sure a few things he’s absolutely gagging to try— _no pun intended_ —such as spanking, choking and being restrained, there’s more than several of the kinks or fetishes he just doesn’t have an opinion on, either positive or negative. In the end, he decides to leave those blank so he can get Peters definitions before he makes his choice.

He’ll try anything once, and if he doesn’t enjoy it, they can just amend the contract as necessary later on.

The part that really gets him thinking is the hard and soft limits on the second page.

There’s a list of Peters limits, and a section for Stiles to fill in his own. He glances at it for a moment as if waiting for it to speak aloud to him; he feels like he’s repeating himself a lot. The first page he had to tick what he thought he liked and didn’t like and now he has to basically expand each bullet point? Peter’s definitely anal— _pun maybe slightly intended._

Since it’s all electronic, it’s easy for Stiles to do some good ole fashioned copy and paste before adding extras to the bottom.

Anything to do with bodily fluids— _aside from the obvious_ —is jotted down first as a hard limit, and considering its one of Peters too he breathes a sigh of relief. 

Peter only has three other hard limits; one is anything to do with fire, which is totally understandable. Two is that he’s not willing to share Stiles— _thank God_.

Thirdly is blood play, which is excellent even if slightly surprising considering Peter’s reputation, but Stiles doesn’t dwell too much down that road. He concentrates instead on how grateful he is that Peter likes the idea of his blood staying _inside_ his body where strictly possible. However, that doesn’t take away the teeniest tiniest part of him—the twisted part—that’s thought about Peter biting him until he bleeds, which he’s not as opposed to as he’d hoped, so he moves swiftly on.

Stiles assumes that anything else is fair game according to Peter—which shows him just how kinky the guy really is. All Stiles needs to do is write in his own hard no’s, and anything he may be hesitant in exploring but might allow himself to be convinced of later on.

He feels like just writing _‘see page one’_ but bites back his petty impatience.

Aside from the bodily fluids, humiliation is something Stiles is under no illusion that he doesn’t want to even dip a toe into. He doesn’t want to be degraded or called derogatory names, ever, end of. While he’s had many a dirty dream with Peter calling him his _‘personal cock-slut’_ , he’s not into anything severe—and he’s read a few examples that made him squirm uncomfortably—so he types that down just for reference.

Age play, puppy play, dehumanisation, feminisation and anything that could cause permanent scars or injury are a few other things he won’t go near with a ten-foot barge pole.

Fisting is probably the only thing he writes down as a soft limit— _for now_. He doesn’t know why the thought of having Peter’s fist inside him makes his asshole want to pack up and leave the country, especially considering some of the stuff he _is_ happy to try but it just gives him icky vibes. Still, he’s maybe willing to be convinced somewhere down the line hence why it’s not in the _'under no circumstances'_ pile. 

Again, he doesn’t know much about what he likes or dislikes, so he’s written in his returning email to Peter that he’s amenable to trying a lot—especially the more punishing aspects the man has listed—but, if he ends up not enjoying them, they’ll just move onto something else.

Safewords are an easy concept for him to grasp. Peter suggested the traffic light system which Stiles agrees too as it’s simple for his hyperactive brain to remember. He’s also content with Peter’s chosen title of _‘Sir’,_ but he refuses to use it in public, at least until he’s one hundred per cent comfortable with all of this.

He doesn’t have any specific name he wants to be referred too; he’s already addicted to the cute pet names Peter has given him, his cock twitches a little at the memory of _‘good boy’_ being purred into his ear. So, he just leaves that up to his Dom.

God, that’s weird for him to say out loud. Once he’s gone through all this with the man and signed on the dotted line, Stiles will be Peters sub. It’s something he’s still trying to wrap his head around, even if the thought of it excites him to no end.

Stiles goes over his answers one more time, making sure there’s nothing else that jumps out at him that he’d like to comment on or anything he’s somehow missed after reading the thing back to back.

When he’s content he’s filled in everything he’s supposed to, and written down all his questions in the return email he takes a deep breath. His cursor hovers over the send button, finger poised over the clicker as he glances at the time at the bottom of his screen. It’s just past seven, the hours having flown by as he focused all his attention on his studies.

Is what he’s done acceptable? Is it enough? Will Peter think he’s just being brash and impatient if he sends it back to him now after only receiving the document this morning? 

The man asked him to return the completed contract before signing, so they can discuss in detail any discrepancies or anything he’s unsure about before he commits fully.

Something in his gut tickles at Peters caring attitude; he just didn’t expect the guy to be so thorough, so genuine. Which isn't fair of him to assume considering the way the Alpha made him feel after thoroughly rearranging his insides.

He’d wrapped him in his arms and let him sleep until well into the next morning, making him feel safe and secure and above all else, completely adored. He’s never felt anything like it before, and it makes him even giddier at the prospects of their new relationship, he trusts Peter to give him what he needs, trusts him to take care of him.

Patience be damned, but that thought alone is what urges him to press send.

He doesn’t need any more time to think it through; he doesn’t need days upon days to come to a conclusion. He made his decision months ago; even if he hadn’t fully understood the formalities back then, subconsciously he’s been craving this since the man first told him the clubs purpose.

After all the misunderstandings and mental barriers put in his way, one thing has stayed consistent; one thing has always been certain.

He wants Peter.

~

Stiles takes his usual seat across from the Alpha at his desk, the same desk he’d been fucked on not even two days earlier, and he can’t help the way his body squirms at the reminder.

He still feels the phantom sensation of the wolf inside him, the bruises on his hips now a dull tingle with their yellow hue and his legs still shook slightly from stiffness whenever he rose from his bed this morning.

Stiles doesn’t have to imagine the smirk on Peter’s face when he winces as he plonks himself down on the chair a little over eagerly.

_The smug asshole._

“How are you this morning, sweetheart?” Peter asks, his voice dripping with knowing.

Stiles won’t give him the satisfaction. “Great,” he chirps. It’s not a lie; he does feel great, even if he’s still a little raw. “Just peachy.”

“I’m glad.” The self-satisfied grin intensifies.

God Stiles wants to just slap it off him, or maybe kiss it off him, stick his cock down the man throat to shut him up.

_Woah, chill._

“Can we...?” Stiles vaguely gestures in the direction of Peter’s computer, where the man no doubt has the contract open, it’s why they both agreed to meet here this morning after all. 

“Of course,” Peter nods, his face turning a little fonder. Stiles melts inside. “I read through what you sent last night—the comments you added and your choices—and I have to say I’m proud of you.”

Stiles’ head snaps up from where he’d been studying his footwear. “What? Why?”

Peter doesn’t even stutter in his answer, the words flowing smoothly and without a second thought. “You didn’t hesitate to state your limits; you didn’t just tick things for the sake of it, you’ve told me what you’re not sure on and what you’re willing to try as it intrigues you. You’ve asked questions, and I’m proud of you for it.”

Stiles opens his mouth but whatever he was going to say dies in his throat, still unsure how to deal with the praise. He loves it, he can’t deny it lights a spark inside him every time Peter commends him for something that seems so menial to him, but it still takes a second for his brain to shove away the persistently lingering self-doubt.

He knows he’ll get used to it, that eventually he won’t have to second-guess Peter’s sincerity, while he does truly believe the man’s words—he trusts him after all—it just takes that little moment for the self-consciousness to step aside. In time, he knows that will diminish.

At Stiles’ silence, Peter continues. “Too many times I’ve seen subs too afraid to ask for a further description of a certain kink or fetish because they think it’s ridiculous, so they just tick _yes_ and move on. I need to make sure you are one hundred per cent comfortable with this, that we’re both on the same page, so it doesn’t help the situation if someone isn’t willing to tell me what they're unsure of.” Stiles nods in understanding, smiling at the man as he leans across the desk to lift his chin, hand cupping his blushing cheek. “I guess I should’ve had more faith that you wouldn’t hesitate to be vocal with your questions, for that I apologise.”

Stiles shrugs, letting out an amused huff. “Yeah, I’m not one to just stew in my own curiosity.”

“I’m glad.” Peter runs his thumb across his jaw a few times before pulling away, straightening back into his chair. “Now, with regard to the tick list, I don’t normally put that in a contract unless I think the sub would benefit from a little guidance, so I apologise for the repetitiveness. With you being so new to this, I thought I’d give you some examples to research and just something to show me what sort of things you’d be interested in trying. I’m not surprised that a majority of your answers are _maybe_ , and I’m more than ecstatic with your comments about exploring impact play.” Peter cocks his eyebrow, purring the next sentence, not in judgment but more in awe. “Do you like the idea of pain, Stiles?"

“I-I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I think I could. Not like close to death pain, y’ know, but I’ve thought about-” Fuck, why are his cheeks going so red? He can feel his whole face flaring.

“Go on,” Peter prompts softly. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about anything you discuss with me, sweet boy.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “I’ve thought about you spanking me,” he admits, twiddling his fingers absentmindedly. “More often than is probably healthy, but I don’t know if it’s just the _thought_ of being punished that I like or if I’d _actually_ enjoy it.”

“That’s fair,” Peter acknowledges. “But just to be clear, pain doesn’t necessarily have to mean _punishment_ , there are other methods we could use for that if you decided spanking and other such things were enjoyable for you. Is that something you wish to incorporate into our relationship?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

He’d read in great detail about Dom’s disciplining their subs for defying boundaries or breaking the rules, and it’s something he’s very interested in trying. He’s not sure why but the idea of being given a penalty for his disobedience just appeals to some deep-rooted part of him, but whether that penance is painful or otherwise, he’d still like to give it a go. 

“That’s fine, we can discuss it further and in greater detail, perhaps build up to it slowly, so as not to overwhelm you with too much at once. Does that sound alright?”

“Yeah, that sounds perfect.”

“Good,” Peter smiles proudly. “We can try anything once, dear boy, and if you find you don’t like it, we move onto something else. I’ll take my time with you, get to know your likes and dislikes through a hands-on approach, it’s all well and good to fill out a form, but when you haven’t had the experience before, it’s easier to figure it out as we go. I’ll respect all of your limits, as I expect you to appreciate mine. That also goes for something you may say yes to now but change your mind on later, that’s perfectly acceptable, you just have to be vocal and tell me, use your safewords, and we can discuss it. Communication is critical.”

Stiles nods along, “Okay, yeah, I mean I trust you, so we’ll just see how it rolls, I guess.”

Peter goes on to explain a little further about some of the options Stiles left blank. They have agreed to try out everything he’s curious about, and by the end of their discussion, majority of those blanks turn into a _‘yes’,_ with only a few going straight under _‘no’_.

It’s a lot easier talking to Peter about this than he thought, he can still feel his cheeks warming at times, but the Alpha is patient, not once sighing or rolling his eyes at Stiles’ inane questions or at having to repeat himself more than once. He’s just sitting calm and casual as can be as he makes sure Stiles is comfortable with continuing, he’s everything Stiles could ever have hoped for, and he’s falling a little more in love with the man as each moment passes.

They discuss the use of protection, Peter says he always leaves the decision up to his sub, but his preference is to go bare, it’s more personal. Stiles agrees, wriggling a little in his seat at the thought of leaking Peters come—being marked inside and out.

It’s been drummed into him from a young age to never go without condoms; he has the awkward conversations with his dad to thank for that. He’s never before felt the urge to go against that rule but knowing what he knows about wolves and their inability to extract diseases he’s happy to ditch the latex.

The thought of being filled to bursting by the man across from him is seriously turning him on, and with one look at Peters filthy grin, it’s clear he knows Stiles’ exact views on that matter.

They forgo obtaining each other’s STI tests, which is fine with Stiles either way. Stiles can’t admit to Peter that he knows about werewolves, so he just tells him he trusts his professionalism; it’s not a lie; it’s just not the whole truth.

Of course, Peter doesn’t mention the fact that he can’t get anything from Stiles even if he had caught something. But, since Peter is his first sexual partner in a little over a year, and considering his carefulness with regards to his last trysts, the Alpha is confident he’s clean without needing the proof. 

There’s also no risk of passing anything onto third parties considering Peters limit of not sharing, so that quickly ends that line of thought.

“So,” the wolf concludes, leaning back in his chair to assess Stiles fully. “Are you happy for me to print this out for us both to sign or do you have anything else you want to discuss?”

Stiles nods, smiling happily as he feels a huge weight lifting off his shoulders, his brain satisfied with its dose of knowledge. “You’ve answered all my questions, so yeah, print away.”

Peter smiles back, clicking a few buttons on his keyboard before the printer in the corner of the room whirs into action. The wolf leaves his chair, rounding the desk to stroll towards the machine. Stiles ogles his ass which is clearly visible through the indecently fitted fabric of his dress pants. He really wants nothing more than to reach out and squeeze those chiselled globes, his fingers twitching as he fights the urge.

He must zone out, his mind wandering too far into dirty places as the next time he blinks, Peter is back in his chair, hand outstretched over the desk, offering a pen to him.

“Oh, sorry,” he mutters as his brain comes back online, reaching forward to take the pen, sliding closer in his seat to glance down at the two contracts. “Just sign here, yeah?” He points to the first dotted line, it’s a rhetorical question, it has his name underneath, so of course, it’s where he has to sign, but his overactive tongue has to fill the silence.

“That’s right.”

With a flurry of his wrist, Stiles scribbles his chicken scratch onto both pages, the tension in his chest escaping on a long breath. 

“You’d think you were signing your death warrant,” Peter chuckles, not unkindly, just amused as he too signs above his name—his signature a lot more refined.

“Sorry,” Stiles runs his fingers across the back of his neck, grimacing when they come away damp. “I just feel more relaxed now that’s all done, is that stupid?”

“Not at all,” Peter assures him, filing the contracts into two separate envelopes. “It can be overwhelming, learning all the phrases and descriptions, it’s a lot of information to take in, you’ve done well, sweetheart.”

Stiles ducks his head at the praise, looking down at his hands as if they’re suddenly interesting.

He’s so caught up in his own head that he doesn’t hear Peter once again leaving his chair, making his way to lean against the metal in front of him, his finger tapping his chin to coax his eyes upwards. “You’re nervous?” It’s said as a question, but Stiles knows the Alphas senses are able to detect such things.

“A little?”

Peter lets his hand drop, clasping his fingers together against his thighs. “What is it that’s making you nervous?”

“I-I don’t know,” he huffs, not for the first time since he’s met Peter, he’s completely unable to form words.

“Talk to me, little one.”

“What if I don’t like it?” Stiles blurts out before he can convince himself otherwise. He wants to be honest with Peter; and even if he’s struggling with expressing his emotions, he knows the man will be patient until he figures out what his brain is trying to convey. “What if I’m not cut out to be, y’ know, _submissive_?”

“First of all, I’m almost one hundred per cent certain you’ll take to being my submissive like a duck takes to water. You already proved to me the other night that you have the tendencies, even if they were subtle. To be honest, you wouldn’t be entertaining the idea if even a small part of you didn’t already believe you’re a sub.” Peter looks into his eyes as he speaks, giving him no chance to doubt his words. “And as for you not liking it, well then we stop. I’ll never force you to enjoy BDSM, Stiles, and you can’t force yourself to like it, if it’s to be it’ll be.”

Stiles ponders the man’s answer for a second, admitting that yes, he can’t deny how much being dominated by Peter appeals to him, but he’s still unsure if his stubborn ass will be able to freely surrender all control. While the thought of it excites him, it’s another thing entirely actually extracting himself from his own head long enough to submit.

All that aside though, he’s worried about what that would mean for their relationship, should he find he’s not capable of relinquishing that power. “But I want you.”

Peter’s brow furrows in confusion. “And you have me, sweetheart.”

Stiles shakes his head, trying to conjure up the words to elaborate his meaning. “Yeah, as my _Dom_ , but if I don’t like it, I-”

“You have me, Stiles, as my submissive or not,” Peter interrupts once he understands, sliding off the desk to crouch in front of him, hands brushing over the tops of his thighs in a soothing gesture. “You’ll have me for as long as you want me.”

Stiles studies Peters face, relaxing under his reassuring words and calming touch. “Promise?”

The Alpha curls his hand around the back of his neck, gently urging him forward until their foreheads press together. “I promise.”

~

Much to Stiles’ subtle disappointment, he leaves the club a few hours later after only getting as far as a passionate kiss. While Peter had explained he wanted nothing more than to ravage him—the hard cock pressing into Stiles’ hip evidence enough—they both need a chance to calm down and process everything.

Stiles can’t argue with that, his mind is a little frazzled, and they both agreed to do their first scene together tomorrow night on his day off, so his impatient ass doesn’t have to wait that much longer.

His only dismay is that he’s working tonight, so he doesn’t have the time he wants to reacquaint himself with his dick thinking of all the sexy things Peter is going to do to him. The way Peter had talked about plugs and the like is what’s currently rattling around his head, making him pulse urgently.

That was probably Peters plan, send him home knowing full well he’ll be struggling to think of anything else but the man inside him but not being able to do much about it.

He could jerk off in the shower, but he knows that just won’t be enough to sate him, he needs something more but only has a few hours before he has to return to the club.

Fuck it; he can go a day without touching himself, what is he thirteen? It will no doubt add to the anticipation of tomorrow when Peter takes him into one of those elusive rooms and pounds him six ways to Sunday.

He groans in frustration; he really ought to invent an off switch for his brain; it’s becoming a problem.

Stiles drives on autopilot to the grocery store, having spent the last few nights with Peter or thinking about the man, he’s not had much of a chance to stock up his cupboards.

He’s not entirely sure how he manages to successfully manoeuvre the shopping cart through the aisles, pick out what his pantry is lacking and pay for everything within the hour without so much as bumping into someone in his daze. He’s low-key proud of himself for the accomplishment though.

It’s only when he’s arrives back at his apartment and is putting his purchases away in their respective places that he finally comes back to the land of the intellectually observant.

What can he say? He has a short attention span so often allows his thoughts to consume his mental capacity while performing benign tasks. It’s not that he’s not paying attention exactly, if something were to happen that would put him in danger he’s still functioning enough to deal with it, but it just means he can live blissfully in his fantasies while also carrying out those tedious aspects of adulting.

With a look at his funky new wall clock—courtesy of Erica and her what she calls _‘modern’_ style—he notices it’s now late afternoon, he has just enough time to grab a quick bite, shower and get himself ready to leave.

He had hoped he’d have more time to think about what he and Peter discussed this morning, but he has all day tomorrow for that. Maybe allowing himself a break from it all, focus on his performance on stage tonight instead of obsessing over things between him and Peter will help him think clearly.

As the wolf had said, it’s a lot of information to take in, so perhaps he just needs to forget about it for this evening, that way he can process it all with a fresh mind.

Easier said than done he supposes, but he’ll give it a try. There’s no use him going up on stage when all he can concentrate on is what Peter is planning on doing to him, not like that’s anything new, but now it’s a little different. Now, he actually has Peter, instead of just dreaming about the possibility.

Still, he’s not one to settle for a mediocre performance, he believes in giving it his all or not bothering in the first place, so that’s what decides it for him. He’ll will away the sexy thoughts in his head and focus intently on his job, on the dream he’s worked towards making a reality for most of his life. 

He can expel the scandalous images of ridiculously hot dominant Alpha werewolves just for tonight—for the sake of his sanity if nothing else.

~

That plan proves more challenging than anticipated when the aforementioned werewolf decides to tempt Stiles with a glorious view as he watches from the sidelines. He’s sprawled out on his usual leather loveseat, legs open invitingly, his cool blue stare never leaving Stiles as he sings his heart out.

To be honest, it’s not really that much of a teasing position; it’s just the air of authority radiating from him, the laid back _I’m-the-most-dangerous-man-in-this-room_ attitude that’s really making Stiles sweat with desire.

The Alpha knows it, knows exactly what level of ungodly sin he looks like, knows what he does to Stiles and it makes him want to retaliate. To tempt the wolf in the only way he knows how, to make the man’s gut spark with the same intense lust he has flaming through his veins right now.

He knows nothing will happen between then tonight, he respects Peter’s suggestion to wait until tomorrow evening, knows it’s in their best interest to have at least some time to ponder their new relationship.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to have a little fun in the meantime.

Standing up from the piano, he saunters towards the band, sharing with them his next song choice as the audience shows their roaring appreciation. With an affirming nod from Tony—the drummer—Stiles walks over to the mic at centre stage, preparing himself for the music to begin.

As the crowd dies down, a heavy, seductive melody floats through the room, the sound sending a shiver down Stiles’ spine as he opens his mouth to provide the rumbling lyrics. 

_“When you came in, the air went out, and every shadow filled up with doubt...”_

He drops his voice low, looking at no-one in the room but the sole victim of his want.

All his focus is directed at Peter, suddenly nothing else in the place matters except the two of them, Stiles’ words echoing in the bubble surrounding them.

He sways his hips enticingly, losing himself in the fluid movements.

_“Heart sick and eyes filled up with blue. I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but I know this much is true...”_

He slides his hands suggestively up and down the mic stand, way past the point of keeping it subtle but with the way Peter palms himself through his dress pants, he reckons the wolf appreciates the clarity.

Biting his bottom lip, he tilts his head from side to side, to the audience he’s moving with the music, but to an Alpha werewolf, he’s submitting in the most primal sense.

_“I don’t know who you think you are, but before the night is through, I wanna do bad things with you...”_

The last few verses pass by him in a blur, the band fading out behind him as the tension between them intensifies to the point of boiling over.

With a flirtatious wink directed at the smirking wolf, Stiles concludes that his message is well and truly received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I’ve mentioned before, BDSM isn’t something I’m confidently familiar with; I’ve dabbled in certain aspects, but not expertly, so I’ve had to do some hardcore research, and it frazzled my brain. Luckily enough, I’ve met some new people who are more knowledgable on the subject than me, as well as finding my own answers through trusted sources on the internet, so I’m hopefully not going to disappoint you all.
> 
> At the end of the day, it’s fiction, and everyone’s experiences are different so we’ll just go with that. To be honest, I haven’t gone too vivid with anything, nor will I be unless it’s something I have tried personally or have been given as examples by others who have.
> 
> Stiles is singing a [slowed down version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBA5-NRDm-I) of Bad Things by Jace Everett. This song was recommended to me by a friend on Tumblr, and I think it fits pretty well with Stiles’ not-so-subtle hinting. It's a little deeper than I have in mind for Stiles, but it's mostly just the speed of the lyrics I was imagining. 
> 
> If anyone has any suggestions for seductive songs, I’d love to hear them as my music library is struggling to provide what I’m looking for. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter moves back again, giving Stiles space and an assessing look. “Colour?”
> 
> “So frickin’ green,” Stiles answers on a breathy groan, his body already shaking with the force of the butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say this chapter is just pure porn, but that would be a lie; I like to ramble, we know that by now. 
> 
> I am so thankful to the people who helped me decide on what to include for their first scene 'cause I had so many ideas and couldn't pick, so cheers for assisting my indecisive ass. I didn't want anything too intense just yet, as I'll be exploring that more in the next few chapters, but I hope it's still satisfactory. 
> 
> It took me forever and a fortnight to write this, smut is still tricky for me, but I tried my best. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

After another wonderful night on stage, Stiles slept like a babe. He passed out as soon as his head hit the pillow and hadn’t opened his eyes again until well past lunchtime.

He can’t remember the last time he’s slept for so long, but his body and hyperactive brain are thankful for it. Both of which needed the opportunity to recharge, especially with tonight’s plans.

Well, he has no idea yet of what those _plans_ actually entail, but he’s sure Peter will wear him out one way or another so it’s best he gets as much rest in when he can, in case the wolf decides to pull an all-nighter.

He’s currently in the shower getting himself squeaky clean, trying his damnedest to avoid any _sensitive_ areas, lest he risks standing under the scorching sprays all day. He’s confident that once he starts, he wouldn’t be able to stop, so he just skips the self-lovin’ all together, after all, the one-day abstinence should heighten the pleasure for him tonight.

He hopes that Peter won’t see last night’s teasing as behaviour requiring punishment, not that he’d be opposed, but he’d like to at least get some form of relief before getting into all that. Peter had said they would build up to it, so he’s pretty sure that means he won’t introduce his ass to the paddle in their first scene, but it’s still something he’s considering a possibility.

Once the water starts to run cold, his fingers wrinkled like prunes, he jumps out of the shower, drying himself leisurely before making his way into his bedroom.

He’s not sure what he should wear, does tonight call for casual or smart, maybe something in between? He doubts clothes will be of much concern once Peter either rips them off his frame or orders him to peel himself out of them while the man watches, but he still wants to look decent before that happens.

Since working at the club and having much more disposable income, he’s undergone a little wardrobe renovation. He shockingly has Boyd to thank for that, who’d have guessed the stoic wolf had a secret knowledge for fashion? Certainly not Stiles, that’s for sure. Erica had just winked at him and said, ‘ _you think I manage to dress this fabulous myself, Stilinski? I may be good with furniture but fashion ain’t my thing.’_ Which to be honest, Stiles never really gave a second thought to Erica’s choice of attire previously, but after that comment, he realized that yeah, the chaotic she-wolf may have taste when it comes to interior design, but she wouldn’t have the patience to put together such a fashionable ensemble without help.

Boyd had been ruthless in tearing apart his wardrobe, for a man who doesn’t have a lot to say, when he does, it’s brutally honest. In the end, with a flutter of his eyelashes, he convinced the man into letting him keep one plaid shirt—for comfort reasons—but the rest went straight to the trash.

He hadn’t the time to mourn his precious graphic tees as the same day Boyd dragged him out to the mall with Erica closely in tow—she’s too nosy to be left out of anything—to splash some obscene amounts of cash.

Looking through the contents of his wardrobe now, he’s grateful for the man’s help, even if he had grumbled for at least a week afterwards about the sheer audacity of some of the stores.

_Two hundred dollars for a shirt?! What the Hell does it do, iron itself?_

Now he doesn’t have to worry about being underdressed or sticking out like a sore thumb whenever he’s around the others. The only problem he has now is having too much to choose from, but that’s infinitely better than struggling to find something decent hidden amongst all the threadbare plaid.

He decides to go for something in-between, not quite as out there as a full three-piece suit but equally not loungewear—even if it is _designer._

He pulls out a pair of skinny black jeans, and a crisp dark green dress shirt, he foregoes the tie but chooses a pair of black oxfords to complete the whole look. It’s not jeans and a t-shirt but also not quite up to Peters everyday attire; it’s a little of both. It’s _Stiles_.

Peter hadn’t specified a time for him to arrive at the club, but he’s going to give the place a chance to warm up before showing his face. He doesn’t want to prove himself overeager even though he wants nothing more than to jump the wolf’s bones.

He’ll arrive a little after opening time, give Peter ample opportunity to greet his guests and mingle a little before he waltzes in and hogs the man’s attention for the evening.

He just has to find something to keep himself occupied until then.

~

It’s a little after nine when he pulls into his parking bay, having spent the last few hours practically staring at the clock, he couldn’t take the suspense any longer. 

The place appears packed, the cars clogging the guest car park proof of that. It’s something he’s used to now, not one night since he’s been here has the place been anything less than full to the brim. He just thanks God he has staff access through the backdoors, as contrary to all his bravado onstage, the thought of going through the main entrance and weaving his way through everyone to get to the bar just gives him anxiety.

It’s strange; he has no problem dancing on the club’s floor, microphone in hand, even being introduced to some of the patrons by one of the pack has no effect on him. It’s not that he ever feels unsafe, but wandering through the crowd on his own, without his confident stage persona to back him up, it makes him feel like a fawn tiptoeing through the lion’s den—or should he say _wolf’s den_.

This door, however, allows him to avoid most of the room, it still leads to the clubs main floor, but instead of having to cut across the room, he’s able to sneak past the brunt of it to get to the bar—where he usually sits when he’s not working.

He has no doubt he’s less inconspicuous as he believes, everyone being some type of supernatural creature can most likely sense his presence no matter where he enters from—if they feel so inclined—but this way just makes him feel less on display, so he ignores the semantics.

Isaac is who greets him first, the boy’s sunny smile never failing to brighten the room. “Hey, Stiles.”

“Hey, Is,” he answers with a smile of his own, walking alongside the boy as he makes his way toward his usual barstool. Isaac filters off to hand out drinks from his silver tray along the way, coming back moments later to stand next to Stiles when it’s empty. “Busy night?”

Stiles raises his hand to Derek, not bothering to shout over the jazz playing in the background, receiving the usual nod back as acknowledgement along with a tall iced glass of soda sliding towards him. He mouths his thanks, running his fingers distractedly through the condensation as he turns to look at the curly-haired beta. 

Isaac shrugs, with a slight shake of his head. “Just the usual.” He pushes the platter towards Derek with an adoring grin, the man’s lips curling in an answer as he wordlessly places more concoctions on the tray. “You here to see Peter, I’m guessing?” The boy asks with a knowing smirk, the little shit winking at him as if he knows a juicy secret.

“Maybe,” Stiles answers with an air of nonchalance but with how Isaac’s grin widens he knows he’s failed miserably at being aloof. “You’re a little shit; you know that?”

“Oh, he knows,” Derek huffs in amusement, shaking his head fondly at the boy.

Stiles can’t help the snort at Isaac indignant scoff. “I’ll have you both know, I’m a fucking angel.”

Derek stops in his movements, sending Isaac a look that Stiles deciphers as a warning. Still, there’s little heat behind it, especially when he notices Isaacs’ expression taking on one of feigned innocence.

“Sorry for swearing, Daddy,” the boy chirps sweetly, lifting the now full tray into his hands, sending the man a sassy wink when his stubbled jaw clenches at the honorific. “Promise I won’t do it again.”

Stiles’ mouth may fall open a little as Isaac blows a teasing kiss to his lover, swinging his hips exaggeratedly and sauntering away to serve the drinks.

He only snaps back to himself when Derek chuckles under his breath. “Definitely a little shit,” he comments through a smirk before going back to artfully juggling bottles.

Stiles takes a few sips of his drink, debating whether or not he should look for Peter or just wait here until the man finds him.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to make that decision himself, as halfway through his inner battle, a pair of strong arms come into view. Large hands—that he knows feel incredible on his skin—lay flat against the top of the bar at either side of his waist, boxing him in.

Stiles can’t help the smile splitting his face as the low rumbling voice purrs into his ear. “You look positively delicious, sweetheart.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he exhales, all the tension he hadn’t realized he harboured leaving his body as he leans back against the man’s chest.

Peter hums approvingly, trailing his nose over the skin at the side of his throat, moving slowly up to his ear, sucking the lobe gently between his teeth. Stiles’ breath hitches, eyelids fluttering closed as he basks in the safe, familiar bulk surrounding him.

The Alpha pecks the corner of his mouth, his self-satisfied grin evident against his already flushed cheek. “Follow me.”

Stiles flails a little when Peter moves away, having to sit up quickly lest he falls off the stool, he rights himself, twisting to stand before moving into step behind the retreating wolf.

He stays close behind the Alpha as they make their way towards the billowing curtain leading to the entrance of the club—to where the rooms Stiles has taken to calling the _‘red rooms of pain’_ are also situated.

His heart is thumping wildly in his chest, throat suddenly dry as he swallows his increasing nerves.

As they reach the black door closest to the end of the long hallway, Peter turns to face him, a reassuring smile on his face. “There’s no need to be nervous, little one; nothing will happen that you don’t want to.”

“I know,” Stiles quickly assures the man.

He’s not entirely sure why he’s nervous, he knows Peter won’t push him further than he’s comfortable. He trusts the wolf to read his body or use his supernatural senses to figure out his limits and know what’s too far even before Stiles does himself. He’s a professional after all, but he still has this niggling feeling in the back of his head that tells him this is too good to be true, that he’ll either disappoint the man or something else will go wrong—it wouldn’t be Stiles’ life if it didn’t.

“You’re thinking too loudly, baby,” Peter taps the underside of his chin, bringing his gaze upwards. “Tell me what’s rolling around in that overactive brain of yours?”

Stiles let’s all the air leave his lungs. “I don’t know, I guess I’ve just worked myself up,” he answers honestly, hands moving animatedly at his sides. “I’m feeling every emotion at once right now; my mind never gives me a break. I’m not even sure if its nerves exactly, I mean, I want you, I trust you so what is there to be nervous about, it’s not as if it’s our first time together.”

“No, but it’s our first time together in this capacity, so I’d be worried if you weren’t in the very least a little apprehensive.” The man brings his hand to the back of his neck and Stiles melts into the gesture. “But rest assured, I’ll give you exactly what you need, little one, and at any time if it’s too much, say the word, and we’ll stop.” Peter waits for his nod in understanding before continuing. “There’s no expectations, Stiles, no hidden goal for you to reach, all I ask is that you submit to me and forget about everything else, let me lead you. Let me take care of you.”

“Okay,” Stiles murmurs softly, the chaos in his head somehow quieting at the sound of Peters soothing tone, his heart no longer threatening to beat out of his chest.

With one last squeeze to his neck, Peter lets his hand slide away, turning back to the door to push it open. The man moves to the side, motioning for Stiles to step into the room first.

Stiles’ brow furrows in confusion as he takes in the room around him, eyes flitting over the lightly coloured furniture, all cool tones, no black or burgundy in sight and no ominous-looking swings hanging from the ceiling. “Well, this is _not_ what I expected.”

“Disappointed?” Peter asks from behind him.

Stiles shakes his head. “Not at all, I just expected more of a, y’know, sex dungeon vibe.”

He hears Peter’s subtle laugh from behind him; he turns around to see the man still holding the door ajar with a small grin on his face. “You really need to stop reading Fifty Shades of Grey.”

Stiles gasps dramatically. “You mean to tell me that _masterpiece_ of a film is a book too?” he jokes, feigning ignorance much to Peter’s further amusement. “Well, I’ll be darned. Though, I have to say, if it doesn’t have a half-naked Jamie Dornan on the front cover, I’m not interested.”

Peter chuckles, shaking his head at him. “It doesn’t, I’m afraid, but even if it did, it’d still be utter garbage.”

Stiles snorts, nodding in agreement. “You have to admit though, the other rooms you have here do sorta fit in with that whole _'red room'_ aesthetic, maybe not as full-on as in the movie but that swing was pretty terrifying to look at.”

“Hm, perhaps a little,” Peter hums. “They’re all unique and kitted out for different fetishes, so some may be more obvious than others, but I wouldn’t say any of them had a _‘dungeon vibe’_ as you so eloquently put it.”

“Okay, that’s fair but none of the ones Erica showed me looked like this. They may not be painted red or have zero light fixtures, but they certainly didn’t have bright white bed-sheets.” Stiles motions a hand towards the four-poster super-king bed in the middle of the room, only just resisting the urge to bury his face in those soft-looking, probably duck down pillows. “And I distinctly remember more _instruments_ hanging on the walls.”

The room is sparsely furnished, minimal yet elegant. Like with the other rooms, there’s a bed, a three-seater couch along the far wall and a full-length mirror. There’s also an open door which leads to a small white tiled bathroom with what he knows will be a bath, toilet and sink—Erica had told him the rooms sometimes get hired for a whole evening and it would be less than practical to have to leave the room every time nature calls.

In this room, there’s an armchair instead of a leather bench he’d clocked in a few of the others, and as he’s just mentioned, there’s nothing in here that screams _BDSM_. 

“That’s because the _‘instruments’_ in this room are tidied into the drawers and closets.” Peter points at the multiple different sized wooden chests positioned against the walls around the room, also the innocent-looking ottoman at the end of the bed. “Rest assured everything your keen eye may have spotted in those rooms is in here somewhere; it’s just not on full display.”

“It just looks like a normal bedroom... I love it,” Stiles admits, taking one final glance at his surroundings. “It’s calming; it doesn’t make me feel anxious. I think seeing everything laid out in front of me would’ve been overwhelming but this... this is nice.”

“I’m glad you like it, sweetheart.”

Stiles faces Peter again, one more question on his lips. “When Erica showed me the others, she said I couldn’t go in here, whys that?”

“That’s because this is my space, while my office is rather private, it’s not closed off. This room, however, is mine and only mine, no-one else can set foot over that threshold unless explicitly invited.”

Stiles so wants to make a vampire joke, it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he thinks better of the idea. “I get it,” he nods in understanding.

He really wants to ask how many people have been _‘invited’_ in here but stops himself with that too, it’s not his business.

However, as if Peter can read his mind, the man answers his thoughts. “You’re the first person I’ve had in here,” he states, while finally closing the door. “I’ve owned two clubs previously, both had a room like this for me to _practice my craft_ , as you will, but I’ve not had much of a chance to get back into things since moving here.”

Stiles doesn’t want to dwell on how happy that makes him, he’s not a jealous person, but he can’t help the little twinge of elation he feels at Peter’s words.

He decides to just skip over it, change the subject. “So, I guess you decorated it how you wanted it then, since it’s your personal domain?”

“I decorated all the rooms,” he smirks. “But yes, this room reflects my tastes more than the others. Since I also use this room for relaxation, a place I can be on my own without disruption, I wanted it to be as minimal as possible, serene and neutral instead of a blatant mural to my lifestyle. Even I need a break on occasion.”

Stiles isn’t really sure what to say to that, so he just smiles. He gets it, Peter may be the big bad Alpha werewolf, but even someone like him must need to reboot sometimes, to take a minute to just chill out, to forget the outside world.

“Now, would you like the door to be locked or unlocked, sweetheart?” Peter brings him out of his musings to ask. “Either way, we won’t be disturbed but just whatever makes you feel safer.”

“ _You_ make me feel safe, Peter, so I’m not fussed,” Stiles answers honestly. “But thank you for the choice.”

Peter nods, reaching over to turn the lock under the handle. “I prefer the extra security but if you change your mind, just let me know.”

“I will,” Stiles whispers, heart picking up speed as the Alpha stalks towards him, reaching out to caress his cheek.

“Good boy,” he praises, the words making Stiles’ breath stutter.

Peter closes the gap between them slowly, giving Stiles a chance to protest, but when he doesn’t, their lips meet in a passionately tender kiss. It’s just a hard press of lips, but somehow it still manages to weaken his knees.

The wolf wraps his arm around his waist, bringing them chest to chest, holding him steady as his tongue seeks access, licking insistently across the seam of his lips. Stiles opens his mouth instinctively, giving himself over to Peter completely, surrendering body and soul. 

The kiss turns filthy, Peter devouring his mouth like he’s starving, swallowing all his mewls until they’re both breathless. Stiles tilts his head back to give the man better access, unable to do anything but moan as the wolf explores him, trying his best to keep up but a slave to the way Peter takes control.

“Are you ready for this, baby?” The man cups the side of his face, thumb smoothing over his bottom lip as he waits patiently for his answer.

“Yes,” Stiles gasps, more than ready for whatever Peter has planned for him, adrenaline already pumping through his veins after only one heated kiss.

“Yes, _what_?”

Stiles assesses the man for a second, brain scrambling in his kiss-drunk haze but the raised brow clues him into what Peter demands, his shoulders relaxing as he complies. “Yes, sir.”

Peter’s face splits into a wolfish grin, his voice dropping low as he states his commands. “In that case, I want you to strip completely, kneel down on the floor and make me come with your mouth.” He tilts his head forward to nip at Stiles’ throat as if the impulse was too much to ignore. “If you’re a good boy and swallow everything I give you,” he rumbles into his ear, so he’s heard clearly. “I’ll let you pick a vibrator out of that drawer over there, and I’ll fuck you with it until you’re sobbing.”

Stiles’ mouth hangs open a little, eyes rolling into the back of his head as his lashes flutter closed, Peter’s blunt words shooting a spark of pleasure straight to his cock. 

Peter moves back again, giving Stiles space and an assessing look. “Colour?”

“So frickin’ green,” he answers on a breathy groan, his body already shaking with the force of the butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

Peter inclines his head, a mirthful smile curling his lips. “Very well, _strip_.”

Stiles is brought out of his internal reboot by the commanding tone, his cock throbs urgently in his pants, already filling rapidly to full hardness in anticipation of kneeling for this man, finally getting his mouth on him as he’s wanted for so long.

The thought of Peter’s cock forcing his jaw open, the heady weight of him punishing the back of his throat gets his limbs moving to divest himself as quickly as he can.

He instinctively folds up his clothes, guessing Peter probably wouldn’t appreciate them being flung unharmoniously onto the floor. He lays them in a neat pile on the bedside table, his shoes and socks kicked off to the side, so they don’t pose a hazard.

Before long, he stands in front of Peter in nothing but his boxers, fingers trembling slightly as he removes the final barrier. He places the garment on top of the pile, turning back to face the wolf who’s eyes are raking over his naked frame unashamedly.

Peter doesn’t give another verbal order; instead, his eyes just motion to the floor, the tilt of his head command enough for Stiles to get into position. Moving forward on unsteady legs, he lowers himself onto his knees as gently as he can, he still hisses slightly as his bare skin makes contact with the rough carpet, but it’s not unbearable.

He fidgets with his hands, unsure where to place them, struggling to keep them still. Peter must notice his inner turmoil, thankfully taking pity on his indecisiveness. “Hands clasped behind your back, sweetheart,” he instructs, voice a low rumble. “Don’t move them unless I give you permission to do so, or unless you are unable to give your safeword, in that instance hit my thigh, and we’ll stop immediately, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles agrees as he clasps his hands together behind him, curling his fingers tightly in hopes it will prevent his restless ass disobeying by accident.

“You have no idea how divine you look like this, Stiles, it’s like you were made to kneel for me,” Peter murmurs, pupils blown black with lust as his fingertips casually roam across his shoulders and collarbone.

Stiles can’t help agree with that statement, even if it’s only in his own head, kneeling for Peter has been at the top of his list of fantasies since he first laid eyes on the man in all his Godlike splendour. The balance of power between them right now is making his head swim in the most blissful way, he feels like a loyal subject offering himself to his King, and _fuck_ does it turn him on something fierce.

“Open your mouth for me, baby,” Peter urges casually, two of his fingers tracing across his bottom lip.

As soon as Stiles obeys, he feeds the digits slowly onto his tongue, pressing down as he pushes them further and further until his knuckles are flush with his top lip.

He breathes through his nose, keeping his mouth open as wide as it’ll go, tongue as still as possible as Peter slides his fingers across his hot tongue, eyes alight with fire as Stiles moans wantonly.

After a few indulgent moments, Peter pulls his hand back. Stiles whines, the sound leaving his throat unbidden, and the man chuckles darkly at the noise. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you something else to fill your mouth soon enough.”

Peter peels off his jacket leisurely, his movements slow and calculated. Stiles just waits obediently, eyes raking appreciatively over the wolf’s strong body, the fabric of his shirt barely concealing the bulging muscles underneath.

The Alpha lays his jacket across the bed, fingers unclasping the cuffs of his shirt before rolling each sleeve up to his elbow. Stiles can’t help think everything the man does is effortlessly sexy, even folding up the arms of his dress shirt is better than anything he’s seen in porn.

He moves onto his belt buckle next, the leather sliding through each loop. Goosebumps spread over Stiles’ flesh, his heart beating that little bit faster. Peter smirks, unclipping the button before trailing the zipper down slow as molasses, the sound a roar in the silence.

Stiles bites his lip when Peter pulls his cock from his briefs, the thick length dripping with every languid stroke up and down the shaft. The tip an angry red, glistening in the light as the beading white trickles over the wolf’s hand.

Stiles’ mouth waters, tongue darting out to wet his lips as it takes all his self–control not to lean forward and lick a sloppy stripe from root to head. “Please, sir,” he hears himself plead meekly, uttering the words without even a second thought.

Peter halts in his movements, eyebrow cocking. “What do you want, sweet boy?”

“Please let me taste you,” he asks, feeling a blush creep over his face and down his chest but he ignores it, too lost in the sea of lust to care if he sounds desperate. The only thought currently consuming him is pleasing the man above him, being good for him. “Let me make you feel good, sir.”

Peter grips the base of his cock, eyelids clamping shut as he groans. When his eyes open again, he looks positively predatory. “Since you asked so sweetly,” he rumbles as he steps closer, the rawness in his voice making Stiles’ belly tighten. “Stick out your tongue, little one.”

He does so immediately, awarded with the salty tang bursting across his taste buds as Peter drags the tip of his cock across his tongue, leaving a sticky trail that he swallows greedily.

“Go on then, show me what that sinful mouth can do,” Peter purrs, sliding his hand from his cock to the back of Stiles’ neck, not urging, just a gentle presence.

Stiles wastes no time, with one swift movement he takes most of the hot length into his mouth and sucks. Peter throws his head back, a guttural grunt ripping from his chest as Stiles bobs in abandon, tongue swirling around the head before crashing back down every single silken inch.

He hollows his cheeks as Peters hips stutter, clearly holding himself back from just rutting into the constricting heat of his throat. The wolf’s free hand is tightened into a fist at his side, and Stiles feels pride well in his heart at managing to have this effect on the Alpha so quickly.

He knows he’s good with his mouth, always has been. He also has zero gag reflex, so that’s pretty useful. He’s not so naive as to be unaware of his most desirable feature, pink pouty lips that look sinful stretched around a dick—it wasn’t exactly difficult for him to figure it out.

It just so happens that having his mouth filled helps him concentrate, while in certain circumstances also brings him immense pleasure. He can’t explain it but watching a man fall apart at the seams as he sucks the soul out of him never fails to get his cock hard enough to hammer nails between his thighs.

Peter’s fingers thread through his hair, tangling in the damp locks as if to hold on. The man gradually tightens his grasp, the subtle sting sending a pleasant tingling up his spine. Stiles moans at the touch, the noise hitting pornographic levels as his muscles clench.

The sound must send a vibration over Peter’s skin, as the man’s hips jerk forward once as he growls through clenched teeth. “Fuck,” he curses on a wrecked breath. “That feels so good, baby.”

Stiles doubles his efforts, the desire to bring the man above him to completion the only thing in the world that matter to him, the hands still clasped behind his back ball brutally into fists as the urge to reach out and touch the wolf becomes almost unbearable.

He wants Peter to fuck his throat, wants the man to rut in as deep as he can go, punching the breath from Stiles’ lungs as drool drips profusely from his chin, but that’s not what his sir wants. What he wants is for Stiles to bring him crashing down over that precipice using nothing but his own initiative and so that’s exactly what he’ll do.

He desperately wants to come, the sound of Peter’s ragged breathing and animalistic grunts along with the obscene slapping of wet skin pushing him so close to the edge he can sense that familiar burn igniting low in his gut. But he pushes that need to the back of his mind, he hasn’t been given permission and at this moment having Peter come down his throat, moaning out his name in bliss is of greater priority to him.

He hazards a glance upwards and is delighted with the sight of Peter’s mouth parting, his chest expanding with his heavy pants, his abs visibly rippling through his shirt as he tenses. “I’m so close, baby,” the wolf warns, fingers fisting even more into his hair as he barrels towards the peak. “Go on, make me come, I want to see you swallow every fucking drop I give you.”

Stiles whimpers, picking up the pace, pushing through the ache in his jaw, eager to finally see the man fall apart. 

Peter groans, long and loud, body going taut as a bowstring as his cock pulses in Stiles’ mouth. “Stiles,” he exhales as his whole body quivers. 

The wolf’s thick release coats his tongue, sliding down his throat as he milks him for everything he has, moaning as the heady taste is nearly enough to make him come, but he manages to hold back, stomach contracting almost painfully to stop himself.

He suckles the head of Peters cock until the wolf hisses, using the leverage in his hair to urge his head away. Stiles takes in a deep lungful of air, smiling dopily as he looks up at Peter with hopeful eyes.

The Alpha smiles down at him in awe, touch tender as he holds his no doubt blotchy cheek. Stiles leans into the comfort, nuzzling against his palm as his breathing evens out.

“Good boy,” Peter croons, tucking himself back into his pants as soon as Stiles has calmed. “You can unclasp your hands now, sweetheart.”

He nods in appreciation, stretching out his fingers a few times to bring the colour back to the tips. Peter holds out one of his hands which Stiles accepts gratefully, stumbling on unsteady legs as he stands. Everything below his knees has gone slightly numb, but the wolf steadies him, pulling him to his chest to surround him with his warm embrace.

Stiles whimpers as his cock brushes against the wolf's clothed hip, the smooth fabric giving him a modicum of friction for the aching pressure. Peter shushes him softly. “Its okay, sweet boy, you did so well for me; I’ll give you what you need.” 

The man tangles their fingers together, walking hand in hand towards the tall chest closest to the bed, he pulls open the second drawer, standing to the side he motions for Stiles to move closer. “Pick whichever one you want me to use on you, take as long as you need. If you’d like some help, just ask.”

Stiles gives an acknowledging nod, eyes flitting over the large array of vibrators in front of him. They’re all different shapes, sizes and colours, no two toys identical. He scans them all for a moment, acutely aware of Peter’s gaze following his fingers as he trails the digits over a few, getting a feel for their texture. Some are cold, some are soft, some are made of hard material, but the majority are made of what appears to be silicon, it’s quite a selection. 

Stiles ends up choosing the least obtrusive, not because he’s nervous or embarrassed, but he’d rather start off small and comfortable especially with still feeling a slight twinge in his ass every time he walks. Tonight doesn’t call for a _‘go big or go home’_ attitude.

As he holds out the petite black vibrator to Peter, however, the wolf’s predatory smirk tells him he may just have underestimated the power hidden behind such a plain guise. “Very well,” the man inclines his head picking up the toy from his hand before sauntering over to the couch at the edge of the room, taking a seat in the middle.

Stiles notices a clear bottle in his hand, unsure when or where the Alpha acquired lube, but he doesn’t question it. Peter places it on the cushion beside him, arm reaching out, offering his palm to Stiles. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Stiles obeys, making his way over to where the Alpha is seated, fingers sliding into the man’s palm. He stands awkwardly before him, waiting with bated breath for his next instruction.

Peter doesn’t give him one; instead, he turns him around, manhandling him into the position he wants. Stiles yelps as he’s lifted as if weighing no more than a feather onto his lap, bareback to the man’s still fully clothed chest. His knees are hooked over the wolf’s thighs, Peter spreading his own legs wide to open Stiles’ up further.

His head lolls onto the wolf’s shoulder, displaying his neck as Peter places a lingering kiss below his jaw. “So beautiful.”

He preens at the praise, although he feels vulnerable, completely laid bare for the man behind him, he can’t help the spark of arousal for their contrast in power. Being surrounded by this dominating Alpha werewolf doesn’t incite fear in him as it would with most, it comforts him somehow, makes his head float into the clouds.

Peter senses his views on the matter, even without a werewolf nose, it’s evident in his squirming and shaky breathing just how much he’s enjoying this. “You like being on display for me, don’t you, baby?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hm,” Peter hums, his large hands trailing across his sweat-slicked skin, everywhere he can reach he smooths over with his fingers, chest, belly, thighs, before repeating the movements. “I’m going to use my fingers on you, stretch you open for the toy,” he rumbles into his ear as he flicks open the top of the lube bottle, pouring a generous amount onto the tips of his fingers. “I want to see you come untouched, but only when I’ve given you permission to do so. We’re going to see what vibration level you can reach before you’re begging. How does that sound, sweetheart?”

“Good, sir, so good.”

Stiles is confident he can do as Peter asks, the man barely needed to touch his cock when he fucked him into the desk before he was convulsing, so it shouldn’t be too difficult with a toy. Especially with the way Peter whispers filth into his ear, enveloping him with his radiating authority.

The wolf drops the bottle from his hand, rubbing his fingers together to warm up the liquid before circling them around his hole. Stiles shivers, his rim sensitive to the touch.

Peter doesn’t tease him much longer, sliding a single digit inside him, not stopping until its fully sheathed. Stiles keens, hips rocking forwards, already desperately chasing more.

The hand splayed over his belly holds him still, the strength in Peter’s arm making it impossible for him to move even an inch. He huffs in frustration, but Peter nips at his throat—a subtle warning. “Shhh, I’ll get you there; you just have to be patient.”

“Sorry, sir,” he mumbles, fists tightening at his sides as he tries his best to relax into the steady pace, his limbs trembling, needy noises climbing from the back of his tongue.

“It’s okay, baby, just let me take care of you.”

The toy isn’t much thicker than two of Peter’s fingers, a long way off the girth of his cock so thankfully the wolf doesn’t spend too long stretching him. It’s more of a tease than actual preparation, but Stiles bites his tongue, focusing on every little sensation lighting his nerve endings on fire instead of pleading with the man to give him more.

After what feels like hours, Peter removes his fingers, picking up the toy to slick it up with lube. Stiles watches entranced as Peter coats the black silicone in the glistening gel. “Just to warn you, this little thing is rather powerful... but I’m confident you can handle it.”

Stiles gulps audibly, eyes widening as the wolf pushes the button on the base, the buzz of the first level fierce enough to echo through the room. He wriggles pitifully in the man’s lap, his hole clenching in anticipation.

“Colour?”

“Green,” Stiles answers without hesitation, intrigued with how much more intense the vibrations can climb before he’s begging the man to let him come.

In a move quicker than Stiles can comprehend, Peter plunges the toy inside him until the base is flush against his rim. He lurches forward, body impulsively bending in half at the sudden sensation, eyes glassy as Peter finds his sweet spot with ease, the toy rattling against the sensitive bud without mercy.

The wolf tugs him back against his chest, stabilizing him as his body writhes uncontrollably. He’s not sure if he’s attempting to wriggle away or fuck himself further onto the wet vibrations but either way, with Peters unyielding grasp, he can’t do either.

_It’s maddening._

“Oh god,” Stiles mewls, voice climbing a few octaves as Peter doesn’t let up, the pleasure coursing through his veins bordering on too much but so, so good.

After several minutes, just as he thinks he’s getting used to the vigorous hum, Peter turns it up to the next level.

Stiles cries out, the fat droplets once clinging to his lashes fall from his eyes as his bones quake with the extreme pulsation.

“You’re doing so well, baby.” Peter kisses his cheek, tongue darting out to lick up the salty stream running down his face. “But I think you can do one more.”

Stiles nods once, hands scrabbling for purchase, nails digging into the wolf’s arms in preparation for the next wave.

Broken sobs fall from his lips as the toy cranks up that final level, he’s so close, the tip of his cock turning purple with his violent need to come.

Peter latches onto his throat, sucking vivid marks into the pale skin before his tongue soothes over the ache, the dull pain pulls shameless moans from Stiles’ chest between bouts of helpless wails.

“P-please, sir, _please_ ,” Stiles begs, thighs trembling as his muscles tense, back arching as he chases his release. 

“You’re stunning when you beg,” Peter whispers into the stinging bruises. “You’re so close, aren't you? It’s almost painful.”

Stiles jerks his head frantically, bawling unashamedly, his body aching to fall over that edge. Every single nerve inside him wound tight, fumbling rapidly towards that earthshattering crest.

Peter’s hand leaves his belly, snaking up his torso. “Go on then, baby,” he purrs, clamping his thumb and forefinger down on his nipple, twisting the rosy bud between the digits almost brutally. “ _Come for me.”_

Stiles screams, back bowing, cock pulsing as he coats his stomach and chest with his release. He convulses wildly as stars sparkle behind his eyes, hole clenching around the still vibrating toy as he weeps through the crippling pleasure.

Searing heat licks across his skin, making him pant for breath, chest heaving, sweat dripping. He’s on fire.

“That’s it, my perfect boy,” Peter coos, switching off the toy as Stiles slumps boneless, easing it in and out of him a few times to drag out his orgasm to the point of near overstimulation. “Such a good boy.”

Stiles barely registers the emptiness as Peter removes the vibrator, his head floating in and out of consciousness as his body seizes minutely with the last few shocks.

Both Peter’s hands are back on him in an instant, grounding him with his soothing touch, guiding him down gently from his high. Stiles feels as if he’s on cloud nine, body singing as he basks in the afterglow.

When his vision clears, his mind coming back to coherency, he’s able to appreciate the honeyed words being murmured into his ear, his heart swelling with love and contentment as Peter coaxes him back to reality. “You with me, sweetheart?”

“Mm-hm,” Stiles mumbles, tongue somehow managing to jumble over the simple hum but he can’t find it in himself to care.

Peter brushes his fringe back from his eyes, the damp locks slicking to his forehead. “I’m going to lay you on the bed, baby and once you’ve had a little rest, I’ll run you a bath.”

“ _Please_ ,” he signs softly.

In truth, that sounds amazing, but in this tranquil state, he can’t seem to utter more than one word at a time.

Peter has well and truly wrecked him.

The wolf chuckles against his cheek, clearly not concerned with the lack of full sentences. “Alright.” 

Stiles bets that if he had the energy to lift his head, he’d be greeted with that signature smug grin across the wolf face but Hell, he can’t help think he deserves every right to be arrogant right now.

Peter swivels his body around; positioning Stiles’ head under his chin, one arm curls under his knees the other across his back before he stands up from the couch.

Stiles feels his eyes drooping heavily as he’s rocked with every step the Alpha takes towards the bed, tiredness gradually washing over him.

He’s laid in the middle of the mattress as if he were made of glass, the man never lifting his hands from his skin for a moment, even when he dips down to grab something from the bedside table.

Stiles is acutely aware of something wet swiping across his stomach and chest before the Alpha is lowering himself next to him, hauling his pliant body under his arm while pulling a thin blanket up to his shoulders.

The wolf unbuttons his shirt, not removing the garment completely but opening it enough to give Stiles the skin on skin contact he didn’t even realize he was craving. He wraps his legs in the soft material covering him, arms circling Peter’s waist as he snuggles in as close as he can get.

“Rest, my love; I’ll wake you in a little while,” the Alpha whispers into his hair, the soft command all Stiles needs to finally succumb to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I love Peter's soft side, I'm a sucker for the tenderness. I'm also really loving Isaac and Derek so I just had to explore that a little more.
> 
> I have some time off next week so I'm hoping to get some more of this done. The chapter count has gone up as I've had to add some things and split up some chapters for easier reading but I'm hoping to go no further than twenty-three.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> As some of you may know, I am rubbish at being consistent with my updating. I have a full-time job, and this is just something I do when I have spare time (which isn't often). So, it might take me ages to finish this. I'd recommend just looking back every so often to check for updates if this story interests you and not get too invested to the point of expecting regular posts.
> 
> A small disclaimer: I am from the UK and while I have tried my best to do my research on the US as much as possible, especially when it comes to schooling and salaries, I am more than confident that I've screwed up somewhere. Let's just play pretend. 
> 
> You can find me lurking on Tumblr at [asarcasticwitch](http://asarcasticwitch.tumblr.com). Come say hi, if you're brave enough.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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